


Raising A Spider

by Soulhearts



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Parent Tony Stark, Protective Tony Stark, Stalker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulhearts/pseuds/Soulhearts
Summary: It's dark outside, and the rain from the storm slams against the windows as the wind whips up the trees all around the building, blowing a blustering gale.The kid should be back by now.





	1. Raising A Spider (Part 1)

CHAPTER ONE

~

It's dark outside, and the rain from the storm slams against the windows as the wind whips up the trees all around the building, blowing a blustering gale.

The kid should be back by now.

They had an agreement. Peter would check in with him every Friday at ten o'clock sharp for a debrief and a cup of hot coco after his Spiderman extracurricular. It was Tony's way of knowing that Peter was safe, making sure he wasn't taking on people like Adrian Toomes alone, because being a hands off mentor hadn't exactly worked out great for him when the kid had basically given him multiple heart attacks – the ferry, the exploding jet, arresting a man making weapons out of the alien shit Tony had tried to destroy with the rest of the Avengers back in 2012… and when Peter had told Tony that he'd nearly been crushed by a collapsed warehouse, it had taken every ounce of his willpower not to lock the fifteen year old up in a room and post security outside the door.

So that was why, every Friday, they had this debrief. Peter wouldn't take on crooks out of his weight-class and Stark wouldn't go into cardiac arrest.

Sitting down on his lounge with a whiskey in hand, Tony stares out the window of his new apartment, purposefully defying the urge to pace, drinking only to calm himself. His new place isn't as flash as the old tower, nor the bunker upstate, but it's comfortable and close to Peter's place in Queens.

Initially, this place had just been somewhere to stay, somewhere he could be close by just in case Peter decided to put another up-and-coming super villain out of commission. Except, Pepper had liked the place and its size, so she'd moved in as well after the engagement. And then Tony couldn't see himself moving back to the bunker upstate with her, nor could he see himself moving away from Peter, nor did he even _want_ to.

He was… happy, here.

If this was as close to happy as he, a man with so many obvious flaws and traumas, could get, then he would die a very pleased man.

It's then that the doorbell rings.

Putting his half-finished whiskey on the coffee table in front of him, he rises and strides across the living room as his body relaxes with relief, already knowing who's at the door.

“What have I told you about being on time?” is his chastening greet, opening the front door to reveal a sopping wet Parker, shivering from head to toe with his hair plastered to his forehead, and his skin a strange bluish tint.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, teeth chattering, hugging himself for warmth. “I forgot to set my alarm.”

Tony can't hold his annoyance, not with Peter looking so pathetic and frozen.

“Come on,” he says, holding the door wide so Peter can walk past. “I'll grab you a towel.”

Returning to the living room after fetching the kid a towel, Stark throws it on his head from behind, clearly startling Peter, before vigorously rubbing his hair to remove some of the rain.

“I can do it!” Peter protests, batting the hands away with a scowl.

Tony releases the towel with a smirk and heads into the kitchen to pull out a mug from the cabinet.

“How was patrol this week?” He asks, pulling milk out from the fridge.

“Fine,” says Peter with a half-smile and a shrug. “Stopped some guy from stealing this old man's credit card, saved a dog from a locked car – it was clearly suffering in that hot thing, then I called the police to report it, didn't stick around though.”

Tony pulls out the coco from the pantry, only to turn around and see Peter still making a puddle in the middle of his living room.

“Sounds like a good week,” he says in response with a half-smile of his own, setting down the coco on the cupboard. “But you're soaking. Remind me to fix that about the new suit – needs to be waterproof.”

“You're not still tinkering with that new suit, are you?” Peter asks as Tony brushes past him, heading for his bedroom.

“Of course,” he yells, journeying into the other room. “I never settle until I create perfection!”

He can hear the kid groan exasperatedly from the kitchen and it pulls a smile from the corners of his mouth.

“Even then, sometimes I keep tinkering,” he continues, returning to the lounge with an old shirt and a pair of slacks that probably belonged to Bruce at some point, considering the amount of holes.

“Here,” he says, handing the teen clean garments. “Change into these. At least that way I won't have to watch you shiver or continue to make that puddle on my floor any larger.”

Accepting them gratefully, Peter starts to strip down to his boxers, sloughing off the Spiderman suit like a second skin as Tony returns to the kitchen to finish making the hot coco.

“Pepper lives here too, you know,” he coughs a minute later, scooping chocolate into the mug. “I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want her catching you unawares like that.”

Peter blushes, doing the tie up on his pants and pulling the shirt over his head.

“I know,” he replies. “But she's got late night pilates class tonight, she won't be home until eleven.”

“And how do you know my fiancé's routine?” He asks, keeping his tone light as he re-emerges from the kitchen and hands Peter his mug of steaming hot coco.

Peter frowns disapprovingly, and the expression is kind of cute on the fifteen year old, Tony won't deny it.

“She always has pilates every second Friday, Tony,” he chides, drawing the mug close to his chest. “You, being her _fiancé_ should definitely know that by now.”

“I know, I know,” Tony smirks, picking up the Spiderman suit and throwing it in the general direction of the laundry – straight through the kitchen – before leading Peter into the lounge where they both take a seat on the sofa.

“G-good,” says the kid, re-wrapping his frozen fingers around the hot mug tighter as he draws his feet onto the couch. “Because you're getting married to her in a month and you need to be a considerate husband.” He finishes, the accusatory tone petering out into something more like a question by the end of the sentence.

Tony laughs loudly, slapping his own knee.

“Kid, Pepper's not marrying me for my consideration. Trust me. She's aware of my many flaws.” He replies humorously, picking up his previously abandoned whiskey from the coffee table, though the ice has all but melted now.

“I guess…” Peter agrees, taking a slurp from his mug and briefly glancing at the storm outside.

Before the conversation can lapse into something Tony will find awkward, he picks it up by revisiting their earlier topic.

“But anyway, aside from the waterproof issue we're now both aware of, have there been any problems with the suit?”

“Not really,” Peter shrugs, curling into the corner of the couch and turning his attention back to Tony, but adds: “Though I'd still like you to take the 'kill' setting out of Karen.”

“Karen?”

“Y'know, the computer voice thingy inside the suit.”

“You called Friday's back-up system _Karen_. That's like, an 80's movie mom name. You couldn't have picked something cooler, like, EVE or C-3PO?”

“It was the first thing that came to my head, okay!” Peter gesticulates animatedly with one hand, almost spilling his drink from the other. “And I wasn't going to name it after a movie character.”

“Hey, don't diss naming computers after movie characters. Friday is, after all, my private homage to the Addams Family.” He jokes, putting particular dramatic emphasis on the word _homage_ , with his smirk only growing wider.

“Uh, I'm pretty sure the girl in that was called _Wednesday_ , not Friday.”

“You say Tomayto, I say Tomahto.” He replies, brushing off the comment with another sip of whiskey.

A snort of laughter comes out of Peter and the sound makes Tony smile too. He'd never admit this to anyone, but he kind of likes having the kid come around on Friday's for company, because the people he tends to work with these days either revere him or hate him. Initially Peter had fallen into the first category, but Tony can now see that the kid has lost that starstruck look in his eyes and just sees Tony the man, not the man behind the Ironman suit.

When the laughter dies down, Tony suggests a game of cards and Peter agrees eagerly.

“What shall we play?” Tony asks, setting down his drink again – empty this time – and walking to the tall, free-standing game cupboard in the corner by the TV. “Coup? Hearts?”

“Can't play _Coup_ without Pepper,” Peter points out, shifting onto the floor and situating himself more comfortably. “Uno?”

“Uno it is.”

Snatching the pack of cards out from the top shelf he tosses them to Peter who pulls them out and shuffles before dealing two piles of seven and placing the remaining cards in the middle. Tony sits in the armchair closest to the kid and picks up his hand, turning the top card of the deck over in the process.

“It's a skip,” he says with a smirk.

“Damn...”

They play several games of Uno and Tony loses track of the score, the kid is enjoying himself and so he finds he doesn't care if he loses every game. It's only when Pepper gets home from pilates that the game and bubble of time in which they'd existed stops and pops.

“Hey boys,” she announces herself, slipping off her sneakers at the front door and popping her bag down by the couch. “What are you up to?”

“OH crap!”

Peter tosses down his cards, startling both Pepper and Tony as he jumps up, snatches his empty mug from the coffee table and sprints to the kitchen, disappearing out of sight.

Tony checks the watch on his wrist and finds the time to be eleven thirty, _well_ past Peter's curfew.

“What was that all about?” Pepper asks with a confused chuckle, coming over to peck him on the head with a gentle kiss. He gently draws her in as she starts to pull away and returns the greeting with a chaste kiss of his own.

“I think it means I'm going to be in for a lecture when I drop Peter home,” he replies with a sigh.

“You're driving him?”

The kid's apartment is only a couple blocks from here and he would normally just walk home, so Tony understands her confusion.

“Yeah. I'm worried about the weather, I don't want him walking home in this.” He says, gesturing to the storm out the window that has only gotten stronger since Peter arrived.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Drive safely.”

Peter vaults back into the room and Tony can see the wet spider-man suit haphazardly stuffed into his school bag, explaining where he'd run off to.

“I gotta go, Mr. Stark!” he practically yells, “But thanks for the coco and the card game!”

“Hold up, kid,” he raises his palms. “I'll drive you.”

Peter pauses to rapidly blink at him, processing.

“No, you don't have to, Mr. Stark, really!”

Tony stands, his body reminding him none too gently that sitting still for too long is never a good idea at his age.

“I'm not letting you walk home in this weather,” he counters. “Come on.”

Tony leads them to the garage, Peter falling into step behind him until they reach the vehicle before they both get in with a slam of doors. Turning the key in the ignition, Tony brings the car roaring to life.

Pulling out of the underground, Tony glances over to see a cloudy look on the younger's face.

“Kid,” he acknowledges, glancing over a couple of times as he simultaneously flicks the wind-screen wipers on to clear the rain away. “What's on your mind? Something up?”

Peter sags in his seat.

“No,” he says. “It's just… it's so late. I feel bad making you drive me.”

“I'm driving you of my own free will, remember?”

Peter's face wrinkles.

“Still,” Tony continues. “You're right, it is late. May might actually sever my head from my body this time.”

A groan emanates from the passenger seat.

“She'll let you off easy,” he replies. “A slow and quick death. Me, she'll torture me for _weeks_ before bringing that axe down.”

Tony can't help but laugh.

“You're so melodramatic,” he chuckles, taking the turn onto Peter's street.

“You're one to talk,” the kid replies. There's no heat in it.

“I guess you're learning from the best then.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” the kid smirks.

Tony pulls up alongside the curb of Peter's street and turns off the engine leaving only the sound of the hammering rain on the roof of the car. The lights are on in the kid's house, which means his aunt is still awake.

Peter seems to be noticing the same thing, if the way he starts to squirm in his seat is any indication. He's pretty sure the kid will be grounded this time, even if he is here to take half the blow.

“You ready for this?” He asks pityingly. It's only under another's gaze that Peter notices his own fidgiting.

“Yeah…” Peter shrugs tensely, more of a jerk than a motion.

He can read the kid like an open book. The corners of his mouth turn up tightly at Peter's poor lie.

“Well, it's time to face the music anyway,” he says, acknowledging the lie but letting it go and clapping Peter on the shoulder before exposing the interior of the driver's door to the elements outside.

Peter hesitates to follow suit but eventually he too climbs out the car, the icy rain pelting down on the both of them as they hurriedly make a mad dash for the overhang at the front door.

The kid fiddles with his key, getting it out of his school bag after some trouble and shoving it gracelessly into the lock to let them in.

May suddenly materialises from the hall with a look to match the weather outside. Tony's sure glad he's not in Peter's shoes, but standing in his own shoes against a force like May isn't something to envy either, he already knows.

Peter startles at her appearance, clearly hoping she'd fallen asleep on the couch or something.

“And you've been _where_ exactly?” She asks darkly, her eyes fixating on the kid with a stare that promised some form of ' _A Talk'_ to be had at a later date.

“Aunt May…” Peter says, attempting to mollify her with his sorry expression, “I didn't realise the time, I―”

“It was my fault,” Tony says, stepping forward abruptly, cutting Peter off in the middle of his stuttered sentence going nowhere. “I wasn't watching the time, my apologies. We clearly got too caught up in Uno.” He flashes a smile back in Peter's direction and for some reason, the boy doesn't suppress the twitch of his lips that he throws back.

May isn't dissuaded though, her eyes flicking back to Peter after having settled on Tony for a moment.

“No Spiderman for a month, Peter!” She declares, pointing a finger at him, unassuaged by their explanations.

After announcing the punishment, to which Peter looks absurdly crestfallen, she turns on her heel and leaves, striding down the hall with a, “See yourself out, I'm going to bed,” obviously directed at Tony.

After they hear May's bedroom door close, Peter lets out a breath.

“Guess I deserve that,” Tony remarks with a nod, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Reckon she thinks I'm a bad influence…”

“Could've been worse though,” asserts Peter wisely. “For _both_ of us.”

“I suppose you are right about that,” he agrees, smirking down at the fifteen year old. “And she's not _entirely_ wrong. Bad influence _is_ what I project as an image.”

Peter smirks back.

“You're not like that at all though,” he disagrees, apparently surprising even himself with the strength of the affection in the words that leave his mouth. “Even _you_ won't let me go out as Spiderman if I haven't finished all my homework. You're… kind of responsible.”

Tony feels immediately affronted by the notion, and he lets Peter know in the way his disgust melts all over his expression.

“Hey now, _responsible_ is a big word,” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I'm Tony Stark. You know, Philanthropist? Playboy? Inventor? Billionaire? I don't have time for things like _responsibility!_ ”

Peter can't help but let out a snigger at that and Tony feels a wash of affection of his own sweep over him for the kid. The lengths he would go to to protect that stupid snigger and the boy to which it belongs seems almost stupid, but then again so much about Peter makes him want to hide the kid away from the world and the evils he knows exists in it. He might not be the kid's father, but his heart didn't seem to notice the difference. It had started resolutely ignoring the part of his brain that logically noted he could never fill the shoes of Peter's dad.

“Yes, well,” the kid snickers, “You're also the worlds greatest avenger, and with great power comes great responsibility. You taught _me_ that!”

Tony knows he looks and feels both entirely embarrassed and immensely pleased by those words, but before he thinks Peter can see the emotion, he stuffs it down where he keeps all affecting emotions and diverts the conversation to something far less pleasant.

“Well kiddo, I reckon that means I won't see you next Friday or the Friday after that or the one after that, so I'll say goodbye here.” He says, shoving his hands onto his hips. “Be good for your Aunt, and don't go gallivanting around as Spiderman for the next month behind her back. If you do, I'll know and I'll tell on you.”

Peter pouts.

He isn't the kid's parent, sure, but he's certainly started acting like one.

“She laid out the rules and we broke them by coming home late,” he adduces, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of protest.

“But it was an accident!”

“I know,” he replies, ruffling the kid's hair. “But maybe taking a break from Spiderman isn't such a bad thing. Focus on school, Peter. Take some time for yourself; I can handle the day-to-day heroics around Queens for the next month, I promise.”

The pout on Peter's face only grows into something more childish, but Tony gets a laugh out of it, and that softens the look on the kid's face, apparently making him feel slightly less sad about his new situation.

“… Can't I visit you anyway? Even if I'm not out as Spiderman…?”

The question is so quiet that Tony isn't even sure he heard it correctly. A hot warmth climbs into Peter's cheeks and he refuses to make eye contact as the silence between them draws into an awkward length of time.

It's only when Tony starts to see the genuine worry growing on Peter's face that he mentally kicks himself into gear, letting a small smile spread across his features.

“Sure you can, kid,” he replies softly. “Any time.”

The expression on his own face is something Tony knows doesn't belong there. It's happy and proud and a multitude of other embarrassing emotions that he doesn't want Peter to see, so before the kid can read it too closely, Tony wipes the expression off his face in a flash, a grin replacing it.

“So long as you've done all your homework,” he chuckles, brushing off the emotions that want to cling, and opening the door to brave the torrential weather once again.

“Ugh,” Peter groans. “Yeah, I know!”

Tony laughs at that, leaving Peter with a wave accompanied by a, “Goodnight, kiddo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's chapter one. I hope you enjoyed. I am unsure as to how regular these chapters will be and I hesitate to set myself a routine for it too, but I shan't abandon ye!
> 
> Much Love,  
> Soulhearts


	2. Raising A Spider (Part 2)

CHAPTER TWO

~

After getting caught in the downpour and ending up so dramatically drenched, it comes as no surprise in the following week when Peter catches a cold. And it sucks. He ends up with a mild fever and spends two days drifting in and out of sleep, not really having an appetite for anything past plain toast.

It's a Wednesday afternoon, about three pm, when Peter hauls himself out of bed, his stiff and aching muscles burning with protest, to take a shower and rifle through the refrigerator, hoping something other than plain toast piques his interest.

Climbing under the steaming hot water does make him feel marginally better. It soothes his muscles, his head feels clearer and his sinuses ache slightly less, and afterward, though there's not much left in the way of food for the week, he digs up some cereal and milk and disposes of the old, mouldy bread in the pantry. He'll have to text May to pick some up on her way home.

Ned had called on Tuesday to extend sympathy, share news and promise a homework delivery, but Peter hadn't had the energy to participate in his best-friend's excited gushing over the newest Star Wars film release on blu-ray, nor his complaints regarding Peter not being at school and therefore Ned having nobody to hang out with during lunch time except MJ, who was moody, sarcastic and sullen at the best of times. He knew from personal experience why Ned would rather escape to the library than suffer through lunch-hall with a surly MJ, but neither of them would ever admit that to her face, lest they be rid of their desire for a long, pain-free life.

Being sick also gives him lots of extra time to mope over his grounding and listlessly wonder how Mr. Stark goes about doing the job of one friendly neighbourhood Ironman. In all honesty, he can hardly picture the man flying around the streets picking up petty thieves for minor crimes, it just seems so below his pay-grade. Ironman should be off arresting dictators or apprehending crime syndicates, not pottering around the streets of New York where the most exciting, non-alien-related thing that had ever happened was that one time Peter had apprehended a serial bicycle thief. Still, he can't help but wish it was him out there doing apprehending. A month was such a _long time._ Maybe there's some way he could get out early, appeal to May's magnanimous side…?

He'll have to think on that one.

Making his way back to the bedroom, cereal bowl in hand, he rifles through his stuff – first his bag, then his drawer, then his bed sheets – looking for his phone to text May about the bread. With the blind pulled down, the room is too dim for him to search properly, so to aid in his hunt he opens it up to let the sunlight in, immediately squinching his eyes against the glaring afternoon rays.

It's a nice day, he notes, blinking up against the blue sky. Not a cloud in sight and several people making their way up and down the street, hurrying to their destinations. If he wasn't feeling so poorly and if he didn't know with one hundred percent certainty that the suit was now programmed to alert Mr. Stark as to when it was activated, he would consider pulling a Ferris Buller, Spiderman style.

He stands there for a solid five minutes shovelling cereal into his mouth and watching the people pass up and down the pavement, but eventually Peter's eyes settle on the one person not moving.

A woman in her thirties, sitting on a bench across the street and typing away on her phone, sunglasses obscuring her eyes and a hat keeping the sun off her head. Innocuous enough, but. For half a second he can't help but feel he's seen her somewhere before.

Maybe she lives on his street. It's a reasonable assumption, but no, that's not it. Peter _knows_ he's seen her somewhere before, somewhere important. Where though? It's there, lurking in the edges of his mind, hiding in the shadows, if only he could place where he's seen this woman before, he'd know who she was, he's sure.

She stops her typing and looks up, her eyes meeting Peter's and locking him in place. His heart gives one traitorous thump and suddenly, the hairs all over his body are standing up and adrenaline is flooding his system, never mind the fact he can't seem to move his feet from their lock-legged position.

For half a second, she seems as startled as he, but quickly she schools it, hiding it behind a façade that feels too much like acting for Peter to believe it's genuine embarrassment at accidental eye-contact with a stranger across the street. Everything about her has piqued his suspicion, even the way she slowly gathers her tote bag from beside her, as though trying not to be too conspicuous now that her cover is blown.

It's only when she turns around, intending to cross the street – presumably to remove herself from Peter's view – that his heart skips a beat and his brain does a double take, confirming his suspicions and justifying the weird feeling of fear that had risen up in his chest like an angry serpent. Her hand brushes past her head and, like a professional, she makes it look like she is tucking a stray hair behind the shell of her ear, but clearly whoever she is or is working for doesn't know he has enhanced senses, because what he sees is some kind of communication device, a tiny ear-bud that sits right in the middle of her ear.

Any normal person would have missed it.

The movement was too swift, the action too small, the ear-bud too well hidden.

Except Peter wasn't a normal person. Not only because he was Spiderman, but now also because someone was following him, apparently. Normal people didn't get professional stalkers assigned to them.

As soon as she's out of sight he drops the blind, his heart hammering wildly against his ribcage.

~

Two days later, he's almost entirely over his cold. It's lucky, because he would've hated missing out on his regular Friday debrief with Mr. Stark, despite not having spent a single minute in the Spiderman suit this week. Actually, he was really looking forward to it because Mr. Stark had actually called him up yesterday and invited both he and Aunt May over for dinner. May had declined because of a clash with her roster, but Peter had enthusiastically agreed to go and Pepper had sounded delighted over the speaker phone – apparently she would be home this Friday evening as well, so it would be the three of them.

Yet despite his excitement for it, his heart just wasn't in it.

“I'm telling you Ned, she was _watching_ me!” He hisses across the desk during maths class.

Their current partner project has them working out the ideal locations to add more fast food joints in each borough of New York based on trends, times, socio-economic factors and where fast food places exist already and honestly, it's the last thing he wants think about right now.

“I dunno Peter,” Ned replies quietly, sounding skeptical, his eyes never leaving the printed map document showing the various locations of burger franchises. “It all sounds a bit paranoid to me.”

“I'm not paranoid,” he sibilates back, keeping the angry edge out of his tone. “I _saw_ her! I saw the earwig thing she had on. I'm telling you, she was spying on me!”

“Well, if you're so sure, why don't you tell May.”

“Are you kidding me? May would absolutely _flip!”_

“Okay, yeah, I suppose she would,” he concedes, shrugging and diverting a look Peter's way as he puts down the compass in his hand and picks up his pencil to write down notes about pizza places. “My parents would lose it if they knew I had a stalker.”

“Right,” he nods. “That's why I need your help.”

“Sorry?”

“We need to investigate.”

“Okay, now you're delusional _and_ crazy―”

“Dude.”

“Alright, I'm listening, but I'd like to make it known that I am _very_ against this,” Ned responds warily as though he hadn't heard Peter's last sentence, squinting his eyes and looking up. “Even if you don't tell May, you're going to tell Mr. Stark, right?”

“No?”

“ _PETER!”_ It's Ned's turn to hiss across the table this time. “We are not having a repeat of Liz's dad and you nearly dying!”

“We won't, I promise.”

Ned says nothing but folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair, shifting his eyes away from Peter quite deliberately.

“Ned―” he starts on a whine.

“No.”

“You don't get it,” Peter huffs exasperatedly. “If I told Mr. Stark he'd just blow it way out of proportion and probably take my suit away! Telling Mr. Stark would be just like telling May except worse!”

“It's not safe!” Ned rebuffs the argument.

“Well it'd be a hell of a lot safer if I had my guy in the chair!” Peter snaps.

Ned deflates at that, his face morphing into something guilty.

“You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?” Ned asks resignedly a moment later, a pinched look forming in his expression. “Whether or not I help you?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh.”

“Ned…”

“Fine. Okay, alright. Fine. I'll help you.”

Ned's tone has taken on a begrudged edge, but Peter's face breaks into a smile nonetheless.

“You are honestly the best friend anybody could ever have,” he grins across the table.

“Yeah, well, you might just be the worst,” Ned sighs back defeatedly, no heat in his tone. “I feel strongly that this is going to come back and bite us in the ass.”

“It won't?”

“Yeah, see, even _you_ don't sound convinced. Very reassuring.”

Peter stifles a laugh.

“We're going to need to work out some kind of plan then,” Ned sniffs, returning to the math assignment on hand and purposefully ignoring the smirk of amusement on Peter's face.

“I'm already on it,” he replies with a nod, lowering his voice even further and becoming serious again. “We just need to hack into the Spiderman suit again.”

“Oh, 'cause that worked out so well for us last time.”

“Hey, did I or did I not save you from a falling elevator that trip?”

“Well, I guess so…”

“Right, so, we hack into the Spiderman suit and turn off the tracking stuff that Tony's reactivated in there. I'm going to set up a camera outside my window, see if I can't get some pictures of this lady and then I'll try and get a tracker on her somehow―”

“Peter,” Ned interjects. “You've only seen this woman _once_. You are working off a _hunch_ not any real facts here. She might not even come back to your house. It may turn out that all of this is genuinely circumstantial.”

“I just… I _know_ she will, Ned,” he huffs, unable to explain the strange foreboding or the weird sixth-sense type of tingling that had run down his spine when they'd made eye-contact. “I don't know how I know, I just do. And besides, I mean, what is the likelihood of having someone sitting outside your house with an earwig thing?”

“Yeah, see, _that_. That is what's making you sound delusional. You're sure she was wearing one? For all you know they were wireless headphones or something, she might've just been listening to music, Peter.”

The pouty face Peter produces isn't entirely of his own volition.

“Well, fine, but what would you recommend as a plan then, huh?” He replies vexedly. “How can I prove to you that this isn't just all in my head?”

“First off, the camera thing was a good idea,” Ned nods sagely. “If you can get a pictures of this woman at your house, hell, even _one_ picture of her, then I'm fully on-board, despite my current reservations about this. If you can do that, _then_ I will help you find and turn off all the trackers in your suit.”

It's not the full-blown plan he originally had in mind, but it's a start, Peter supposes. He wants Ned on board voluntarily, not just because the guy thinks Peter might accidentally end up dead in a gutter without his assistance.

“Alright,” he huffs out a sigh, letting the tension out from his shoulders. “Okay. All I have to do is get some pictures, right? Then you'll help me?”

“Yes,” Ned agrees with a nod.

“Okay, I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback fuels me.


	3. Raising A Spider (Part 3)

CHAPTER THREE

~

There is something… _off_ about Peter tonight, but frustratingly, Tony can't put his finger on exactly what it is.

From the moment the boy had arrived at the condominium he'd been acting strangely, an uneasy air about him that just didn't belong. Whenever he'd thought Tony wasn't watching him, Peter's eyes would linger on the window, like he was expecting something to burst through the glass, and his eyes were constantly scanning the room as though he were checking it for danger.

Tony just doesn't know what to make of it, and he doesn't like the waves of apprehension making him feel seasick.

However, despite the tightness around the corners of his eyes, Peter talks and laughs normally with Pepper and is the same chatterbox he's always been with Tony, so eventually he shrugs off the unusual behaviour as school related – definitely May's department – and ignores the nervous stare as he settles down for dinner, letting the evening drift past behind a pillow of intoxication and friendly chatter. Besides, unbeknownst to Peter, Tony knows the kid couldn't have webbed his way into serious trouble this week after he tapped into Karen's programming and reworked the baby monitor protocol to inform him if the kid even _touched_ the suit.

So it isn't Spiderman related, but that somehow makes him more nervous; at least he's familiar with superheroes in crises, teenagers on the other hand… not exactly his forte.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he makes his way toward the wine rack across the room, dismissing his lingering thoughts as he goes.

“Should we open another one?” he asks.

“I couldn't possibly,” Pepper smiles, sliding her wine glass across the table in invitation. “But if you insist.”

Peter quietly excuses himself for the bathroom and Tony's eyes follow him out, forehead creasing with worry.

Pepper's voice cuts through his thoughts.

“You need to talk to him, Tony.”

His head snaps back and he meets her eyes, concern of her own manifesting there.

“You know as well as I do that something is wrong,” she continues quietly, maintaining the hush between them.

Tony bites his lower lip and drops his gaze from hers, bringing the new bottle of wine over to the table before sitting, cracking the lid and pouring them both new glasses.

“What do I say?” he asks, glancing up in the hopes she'll save him with good advice. “I'm not good at this stuff. You should do it, you're better at helping people through emotional stuff than I am.”

Pepper's face contorts into something filled with disapproval as she folds her arms.

“ _You're_ the one he looks up to, Tony,” she chides with a raised eyebrow. “Not me. You need to talk to him. Just ask him about his week, if he's talking to you it'll come out eventually.”

“You're sure?” he returns, the hesitancy in his voice more than just an undertone.

“No,” she sniffs, the rolling of her eyes appearing to be an afterthought. “But it'll get you two talking at least.”

Tony's face curls into something sour at her insistence, but is immediately chased up again by nervousness.

Taking a second to reflect on his on life, he realises his own teen years hadn't really prepared him for _this_. Howard wasn't really a man of words, nor was he one to overtly express himself in anyway, so Tony feels completely unprepared to have a conversation with Peter that might delve into feelings or teenage angst. It feels a little like jumping off a cliff without a parachute, not to mention that fifteen year old boys weren't really known for their loquaciousness. Tony certainly hadn't been. Most conversations with his father had ended in anger, yelling and slammed doors and then his mother and father were gone before he could repair that relationship.

Still, maybe Pepper is right, it could be worth a shot? Besides, Peter isn't him. Thank god for that.

“It can't hurt?” she appends, as thought reading his thoughts, which are probably splayed across his face like a neon sign.

“You don't know that,” he asserts with a scared look, his voice slowly dropping into a whisper. “I'm the stereotypical, emotionally stunted male, Pepper. This might go worse than you think.”

“Oh, _honestly,_ you're such a drama queen,” she huffs. “Just _talk_ to him.”

Tony is starting to feel a little like a piece of precariously placed pottery, ready crack any moment.

Across the table she gracefully rises to her feet and takes the empty plates into her hands.

“You'll be fine,” she states, and then disappears into the kitchen.

Tony's head falls into his hands with a groan and that is how Peter finds him when he returns to the dinning room.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Peter.”

“Everything alright? Where's Pepper?”

“Yes, I think I just drank a little too much wine,” he lies easily. “And she's in the kitchen.”

“Oh.” Peter says, sitting down in his chair. “Should we go help her?”

“Can we talk first? You know, man to man?”

Peter's face tightens.

“Hey, are you alright? You look tense.” Tony continues, trying to keep his voice light as he mentally takes stock of the growing frown on Peter's face.

An exhausted sigh escapes the boy's lips.

“Yeah,” the kid replies, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders, though not all. “I'm good.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, just tired,” he admits, but Tony feels like that's not the only thing creating the heavy expression Peter wears on his face and feels a little lied to. Something squeezes in his chest, but Tony ignores it and files the feeling away for later examination.

“I caught a cold from the rain last week,” Peter adds, obviously noting the unconvinced look on the older man's face. “Had to stay home from school until Wednesday. Maybe I'm still recovering from it?”

The tight feeling in Tony's chest unexpectedly feels a lot heavier as his stomach gives a flip and then roils at this new information.

“You were sick?”

The words leave his mouth with a wobble, but thankfully Peter doesn't seem to notice the layer of fear underneath it.

“Yeah,” the kid confirms. “Had a fever and everything.”

Tony sucks in air through his teeth, but Peter doesn't seem to notice that either.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asks, against the advice of the voice niggling at the back of his brain, reminding him he shouldn't be so invested or involved in Peter's personal life.

This sort of stuff was what the kid had an aunt for. Tony didn't need to be butting in every three minutes for a freaking cold, even if that was exactly what he wanted to do. But embarrassment over his unnecessary panic only stops him briefly, as concern for Peter's health immediately overtakes it.

“I dunno,” the kid shrugs, diverting his eyes to the coffee table. “Just didn't think you'd care, I guess.”

Tony feels like he's been stabbed.

The physical feeling of hurt actually makes him stop breathing for a moment.

_Didn't think he'd care?_

The winded feeling takes longer to pass than expected, possibly because he has to fight his way back from the drowning sensation that's filled his lungs with liquid lead.

“ _As if you can possibly think that,_ _Peter._ ” He snaps, lashing out from the hurt.

The unexpected anger makes Peter jerk in surprise, but Tony's not done yet. A bubble has popped inside him and is letting out furious, hissing acid inside his lead-lined chest.

“Of course I care! You don't know how much I care if you get hurt or sick or upset. Don't you think you aren't one of the most important people in my life? You don't get to decide that I don't care about you.”

On the one hand, the release of his anger into the open is cathartic and feels a little like lancing a blister, but on the other, embarrassment slaps him right across his face, like somebody just hit him with a wet fish.

Peter just sits there and looks dumbfounded.

The moment passes and Tony looks away with a façade of nonchalance, but his eyes glance over occasionally, assessing the emotions that flick across Peter's face as fast as a film reel.

It takes a full minute of nothing but awkward silence before the kid stutters out something that sounds like an apology, followed half a second later by a self-conscious smile, tugging at his lips.

Then, Tony can't help the sigh that falls from his lips.

What the hell is he doing? Why does he constantly have to remind himself he's not Peter's father? When he first met the kid, he'd never imagined going beyond a mentor, but now Peter is somehow an irreplaceable person in his life.

“I'm sorry, kiddo,” he starts, forming an apology of his own, reflective of those thoughts. “I didn't mean to… cross a line or anything. I know I'm not your dad, I know I can't fill those shoes or anything…”

Peter looks up with a fierce determination in his eyes that Tony doesn't know what to do with, nor why it is even there.

“I never knew him,” he interrupts, effectively stopping Tony's apology. “I never knew my dad at all.”

Tony's mouth snaps shut. Well, he's stuck his foot in it, hasn't he? Peter was an orphan, he of course knew that, but _when_ he'd come into May's protection wasn't something Tony had ever bothered to learn. He wishes he had now.

Peter ignores the evident wave of trepidation that flood's Tony's expression and continues, barefaced.

“May told me his name was Richard, but I don't have any memories of him. I have no idea what he was like as a man. I don't know if he was like me, or if he was completely different. Maybe I would have liked him, maybe we'd be estranged by now, but I don't know because I never got the chance to meet him,” Peter says quietly, dropping his eyes to the cuff of his sleeve, which has suddenly become one hundred times more fascinating than anything else in the room.

Tony doesn't stop him. He half holds his breath, waiting for the kid to continue.

“Not like you.” Peter continues, his cheeks bursting aflame, blush trailing all the way down his neck. “I–if my dad were alive today, I'd want him to be like you.”

Tony doesn't know what to say to that.

What _can_ he say?

He has to say something.

“I… my dad wasn't the greatest…” he starts, painfully recalling Howard's face to mind. “He was always working, always talking about his glory days. He and I could go weeks without speaking to each other. He's the reason I'm so messed up… or, I suppose, at least partly. I never wanted kids thanks to him, I never wanted them to look at me like I looked at my father. I don't think I would've been able to stand it.”

He stops to swallow painfully.

“I guess what I'm trying to say here is: I know you're not my kid, but I'd be proud of you if you were.”

Peter's eyes well-up with emotion, but Tony _has_ to finish, if only just so he can say the words the boy would never get to hear from his own father.

“I'm sure Richard would be proud of you too, kid. You're smart and emotionally intelligent and you have a sensible head on your shoulders, which already makes you a better teenager than I ever was.”

Stretching out a hand, Tony lets his instincts guide him and he ruffles Peter's hair softly, giving the kid a moment to pull away if he wants to. Peter doesn't move though and, maybe it's Tony's wishful imagination, but he thinks Peter actually leans into his touch.

“I'll say it again, Peter,” Tony reiterates, as he removes his hand from atop the kid's crown, the boy looking up to search his eyes for something other than honesty. “I'm always going to be here for you if you need me, alright?”

“I know,” Peter utters quietly, accompanied by a soft sniffle that Tony ignores for the sake of Peter's pride. “Thank you, Tony.”

“You're welcome, kid,” he replies, a smile settling on his features.

And yet despite the conversation, Peter's face is still lined with that same unease he's carried upon himself all night. Hell, what is he supposed to make of it? He can read it across Peter's face as plain as day and the kid knows it. For a moment the knowledge of it hangs thickly between them and Tony knows it's now or never if he's going to get the truth out of Peter about what's bothering him.

“Peter,” he starts, his voice breaking under the heavy layers of emotion piled on top. “Are you _sure_ there's nothing bothering you?”

He wants the kid to crack, to open up and let Tony help him, but that's not something Peter is used to doing. It's only ever been May for him. The only adult he's ever really been able to rely on has held up the family on shift work and snatched hugs when the time permitted it. Like Tony, Peter practically raised himself and isn't used to trusting openly. If there were burdens, Peter would simply shoulder them himself, like he is now, Tony suspects.

“If there's something going on, or something wrong, you can tell me. You don't have to take this all on by yourself,” Tony continues, the frown on his forehead deepening. “I meant what I said to you before.”

Peter just smiles and shakes his head.

“There's really nothing wrong, Mr. Stark, I promise.”

But from the moment the words leave his lips, Tony knows they are a lie.

“Okay.” He replies anyway.

Peter's smile grows, but it never reaches his eyes. “I'll go help Pepper with the dishes,” he says before standing and making his way towards kitchen.

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he replies to an empty room.

Another heavy sigh escapes Tony in the absence of truth, but there is really only one option for him here. Half of him feels that what he is about to do is a complete violation of Peter's privacy, but then again, Peter doesn't know his own limits and somehow, that justifies it in Tony's mind.

“Friday,” he croaks to the empty dinning room. “Is the drone on the mark one Spider-suit currently fully functional?”

Because of course he wouldn't live in this apartment permanently without Friday.

“Yes, Boss. The battery-life issues have now been remotely fixed and the compatibility problem it was experiencing has now been resolved. Aside from the parachute that was never replaced after Peter's first encounter with Mr. Toomes, the suit is functioning at optimum efficiency.”

“Good.” He nods to himself, a hand coming up to scratch his chin. “Alright, make a note that I'll need to replace that soon, but for now I want you to activate the drone. Any time Peter leaves his house I want the drone with him.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Also, live-monitor his vitals. If anything out of the ordinary pops up, I want you to alert me right away.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Oh, and monitor his sleeping patterns. Maybe he's not getting enough sleep? And live-monitor his conversations too, if anything sticks out as dangerous, I want to be informed immediately.”

“Yes, Boss.”

It might not be the best solution, but right now it's the only one he's got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected! Originally this chapter was twice as long, but I hated it and so I re-wrote it three times and I'm still not happy with it but I've given up on trying to be. I hope you let me know if you enjoyed this chapter, or didn't, because I felt so at arms length with Tony's character for this one.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Raising A Spider (Part 4)

CHAPTER FOUR

~

It's undeniable that his nightmares are getting worse.

Every night for the past week Peter’s awoken out of breath. A cold sheen of sweat covering his entire body and the flash of fire behind his eyes, or the feel of rubble beneath his feet, or a crushing weight laying heavy over his chest. He wakes up with half-formed screams behind his lips and an overwhelming fear that someone is watching him even in sleep, like the Vulture is stalking his dreams. The night becomes a battle between his physical needs and his mental defiance, and it’s only when his eyelids droop so heavy that he can’t keep them open any longer that sleep pulls him under, a heavy wave pulling him along the rocky ocean floor, scraping bits and pieces of real memories and dystopian fears into his psyche before shocking him awake with the frigidity of the coastal currents.

And the person that initially kicked off this ominous feeling and inability to sleep? Well, snapping her on his camera-phone has been easier said than done. The mystery woman never returned to his street, though he'd had a deep-seated hunch she wouldn’t come back after he’d seen her.

He hasn’t completely ruled out the idea that he really _is_ going crazy, either.

Each day he wakes up looking more and more like a conspiracy theorist: dark circles beneath his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, insanity lurking behind his pupils. No one would be surprised if he showed up to school tomorrow with a hat made of tin-foil.

Unfortunately, this leaves him with a rather circular problem.

No picture of the mystery woman, no help from Ned.

No help from Ned, no hacking the suit without Mr. Stark finding out.

No suit, no finding the mystery woman.

He’s not one to succumb to the challenge, but it is starting to feel a little as though he’s stuck in a toxic relationship with his problem.

It's lunchtime when Ned sidles up alongside him at school, leaning his weight on the lockers as Peter grabs out his textbooks for chemistry and Spanish.

“Damn dude, you look terrible.”

Peter slams the locker shut and stuffs his books into his bag without comment, but Ned is either undeterred by his prickly attitude or just doesn't notice, because he falls into step with Peter as he swings his backpack over one shoulder and starts off toward the cafeteria.

“Nightmares aren't getting any better, huh?” Ned winces with sympathy.

“No,” Peter yawns. “Actually, I think they're getting worse.”

“The mystery woman keeping you up again?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I think you need to just forget about her,” Ned advises, with a shake of his head. “The state you're in… your aunt's going to notice eventually… she'll start asking questions.”

Peter takes a deep breath and exhales, “I know.”

A frown grows on his friend’s face.

“What are you going to do if that happens?” he asks, the concern only growing as the enter the packed hall, all students heading toward the same destination. “Will you tell her?”

“I don't know… no?”

“You can't let this go on forever, Peter,” Ned submits sagely. “… you know you have to tell someone.”

“We've been over this,” he replies huffily, rolling his eyes from one side of the hall to the other before closing his eyes briefly, wishing they could just drop this topic. “I'm not telling May. You know how she is. She’ll just flip out and she doesn’t need to be worrying about me, not over a couple bad dreams.”

The two of them pull up at the cafeteria and grab lunch trays on their way in, stepping behind the other students in the line.

“It's more than that and you know it.” Ned jabs a finger into his back. “Peter, you’ve come into school every day this week looking like you’ve just been resurrected from your grave.”

Peter resists the urge to grunt, growing increasingly annoyed that they're rehashing this conversation.

“Besides,” he continues unperturbed from his mothering by the lack of response. “She's not the one I think you should tell.”

There's a tension headache forming behind his left eye, Peter's quite sure. It hurts a little when he spins around and levels Ned with a very narrow glare.

“I'm not telling _him_ either,” he snaps.

“He might be able to help,” his friend presses, throwing pineapple juice boxes on both their trays.

“I can figure this out on my own, Ned,” he bites back, spinning on his heel to face the front again. “I don’t need his help.”

“Yes, but two heads are better than one,” the other boy points out. “And wouldn't it be better to have _him_ on your side?”

“Look, I appreciate your help, but can we just drop it?” Every word is sharp and irritated, an attempt to dissuade, and the conversation is starting to stray into dangerous territory. Maybe he'd have more patience if he'd had more than three hours of sleep last night.

Ned shakes his head sadly but makes his feelings on the matter clear. “Fine, we can stop talking about it, but I wish you'd tell someone. An _adult_ that might be able to _help_.”

Reaching the end of the line, their plates and trays now full, both dawdle toward their usual table – empty, aside from MJ's usual presence.

Ned shifts the conversation on, starting afresh but with a topic no less sensitive as he takes up his seat, sliding into the empty space beside Peter.

“It’s weird.”

“What is?” Peter shoots his friend a questioning look and punctures the pineapple juice box lid with the flimsy, plastic straw

“We always used to watch Liz during lunch,” the other boy replies nostalgically, taking a bite of his egg sandwich and swallowing thoughtfully before glancing down at the food in his hands. “It’s just weird that she’s not here anymore.”

A pang of remorse shoots through Peter's whole system.

“I know,” he admits quietly, when the silence stretches too long between them. “I miss her.”

Ned smiles in sympathy and elbows him gently as a show of solidarity.

“Me too,” he confesses sincerely. “But you know, what you did. It was right. It was the right thing to do.”

“Thanks,” Peter accepts lamely, staring at the table. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It's still incredibly weird that you two were her professional lunchtime stalkers,” MJ pipes up, pulling her nose out of the book in which it was stuck, shoving a bookmark between the pages before turning to them. “And she's gone now, but I _still_ have to listen to you two numskulls prattle on about her!”

“Is that your way of saying you miss her too?” Ned ventures, lightening his tone.

She shrugs, but aims a narrow-eyed glare in his direction and Peter can see the shiver it sends up Ned's spine. MJ can be quite scary when she wants to be, and instead of dignifying Ned's question with a proper answer, she unzips her bag and pulls out two sheets of paper.

“Here,” she says, handing them over abruptly. “The conversation about Liz reminded me; these are for Friday.”

Ned takes his and immediately begins scanning the page, but Peter waits for her to go on before glancing down at his own.

“Decathlon practice is gonna go long after school. Something to do with the seniors visiting colleges that day? Back late or some nonsense, I dunno, I didn't ask for the details. Either way, you're expected to be at practice from four until seven.”

Peter's jaw drops first.

“You're kidding.”

“Sadly, no,” she frowns, closing her eyes wearily as though she’s endured this conversation multiple times already. “Trust me, Parker, I don't want to be there any more than you do, but that's just the way it is.”

“But I had… stuff, that night―” he pushes argumentatively, hoping he can somehow get out of the extra hour. After the awkward way he left things with Mr. Stark last Friday, he doesn't want the man thinking Peter's avoiding him, even if he refuses to tell him about the mystery woman.

“Cancel them.” She orders abruptly, looking annoyed.

“But is there no way I can―”

“ _Cancel them, Parker,”_ she snaps peevishly. “You're not the only one who had plans.”

His mouth snaps shut and that seems to satisfy her.

He’ll have to text and apologise to Mr. Stark.

Hopefully the man doesn't take it the wrong way, but Peter figures it’ll still set him on edge. Mr. Stark doesn't like surprises, but with a past like his, Peter understands why. So pulling out his phone sadly, he fires off a quick text. It's best to get this over with and give the man as much advance notice as possible.

— _Hi Mr. Stark. It's Peter Parker._ _I can't come over this Friday because decathlon practice has been extended and I have to be at school for an extra three hours._ _I’m sorry. Please tell Pepper I’m sorry._

He rereads the text twice before sending it. It's concise, if somewhat abrupt.

Next he sends one to May,

― _Decathlon's gonna go late this Friday. I'll leave the form on the table for you to sign once you get home from work._

Sliding his phone into his pocket, he glances back over at MJ, who has already returned to her book and is back to ignoring both he and Ned.

Looking back down at his tray, he finds his hunger gone, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing through him, but the abrupt manner in which he stands and collects his bag from the foot of the table makes Ned jolt and eject loudly, the straw of his own pineapple juice lolling in the corner of his mouth.

“Hey! Where are you going? You haven't finished your lunch.”

Peter dips his head apologetically, “Sorry, I'm just not that hungry. I'm gonna go grab some air, I'll see you in Chemistry.”

What he really needs is a pillow, but air will have to suffice.

Leaving his friend with a bewildered expression, Peter swings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the cafeteria exit, noticing the his buzz in his pocket the moment he makes it into the hall.

Trudging outside, he finds a cool place under a large oak and pulls his phone out from his jean pocket, expecting to see May's name flash up on screen. But to his surprise, it's not his aunt.

― _When does practice finish?_

The message reads. Peter can almost hear Mr. Stark's voice in it.

― _Seven._ He types back.

Dots drum across the screen, and then:

— _You want a lift?_

What?

Before he can reply, or even think too hard about what this offer means, two more messages flash up on his screen.

— _Pepper’s not home that night. She’s got late night pilates, remember?_

— _We can get cheeseburgers on our way home._

A broad smile immediately spreads across Peter’s face.

— _Yes! Thank you, Mr. Stark!_

Of course, he'll have to clear it with May, but she shouldn't find anything too objectionable with this request. She's not fond of Mr. Stark, but it's not like she hates him outright.

— _It's fine, kiddo. I'll pick you up from school at seven. Don't make me wait too long._

— _I won't._ He promises, a grinning emoji attached.

~

Dumping his key in the bowl by the door and kicking off his sneakers, Peter takes half a second to just find relief that the day is over and that he is finally home. The thought of taking a nap before May gets home briefly flutters through his head, but the rather violent protestations of his stomach win out – it hasn't exactly thanked him for neglecting half his lunch.

Okay then: food first, then nap, then homework.

Starting toward the kitchen, his plan is interrupted by May's voice bringing him to an immediate halt as soon as he crosses the threshold, defined by the laminate floor.

“Welcome back, honey,” she says with a soft smile upon her lips. May dodges the table in the center of the room to embrace him in a swift hug and a peck to the side of his head. “How was school today?”

He drops his bag at the foot of a kitchen chair, freeing his arms to reciprocate her familial hug.

“Aunt May?” he asks into her hair. “What are you doing home so early?”

“I got the afternoon shift off!” she beams, pulling away with a cheerful wink. “Too many rostered on, apparently. They had to send some people home.” She doesn't miss a beat before the parent in her, honed after fifteen years of use, kicks in. “You got homework?”

“Yeah,” he admits over his shoulder, marching to the fridge, pulling the carton of milk out and pouring himself a glass before pulling out a seat at the table and slumping into it. “Also I texted you about it, but decathlon practice is gonna go late on Friday.”

Her hands settle on her hips and she purses her lips, looking as though she doesn't like that idea.

“I saw,” she says, a slither of annoyance underlying her voice, though he knows it's not directed at him. “How late are we talking?”

“Four ‘til seven...” he sighs tiredly, reaching for his bag so he can pull out the form MJ handed him earlier. “Mr. Stark has offered to pick me up though, if you're okay with it.”

“… _Stark_ has?” she says a moment later as she takes the proffered form, her expression deadpan but her voice betraying surprise.

“Yeah.”

“We’re talking about the same Stark here, aren’t we?” she continues, her fingers now dancing between herself and Peter. “Tony Stark?”

“Yes.”

She pulls out a chair and slides right into it as Peter offers a pen.

“You two are as thick as thieves,” she says shaking her head and signing the form, sliding the pen and the paper across the table once finished. “Honestly.”

“It’s better than having to catch the train,” he murmurs before she can find a way to disapprove of the plan. “He even offered to buy me dinner. You’re not going to be home and it’s easier than cooking for myself.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she grants with a slow nod. “I have to admit that I’d be much happier if you didn’t have to catch the train at that time of night, so if you’re _sure_ Mister Stark is happy to collect you from school, then I suppose it’s alright.”

“Thanks May,” he smiles tiredly. “I know you're not exactly best-buds with him or anything.”

“That’s an understatement,” she interjects, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest. “He gave you a way to go out and get yourself hurt every damn night and I wasn't even aware of it!”

“To be fair, I was already going out as Spiderman _before_ Mr. Stark gave me the suit. So that's not really on him.” The words are already out before he realises _probably_ shouldn't have revisited that. And even if he hadn't come to that conclusion on his own, the wordless glare May gives him certainly does the trick.

Peter carries on quickly, “What I’m trying to say is that, I know you don’t exactly like him, but he’s really a good guy.”

“I don't doubt that he's a good guy, honey,” she deflates with a sigh, dropping her anger in favour of defeat. “I'm not worried about his _morals_.”

Confusion must register on his face because she continues before he can question what she means.

“He _means_ well,” May concedes, bringing her elbows up onto the table so she can rest her chin upon her hands. “I just worry about… _good_ _intentions_. Sometimes doing the right thing can have unforeseen consequences, and that guy doesn't exactly jump out at me as the ‘thinking-things-through-fully-before-leaping-into-action’ type.”

Peter thinks he understands that sentiment. His need to stop the Vulture from selling weapons to bank robbers had been well intentioned, but how many people had he unintentionally hurt in the process? Mr. Delmar, Liz, even Tony himself. His well-intentioned carelessness and desire to _prove_ himself had cost them their business, their family, and their faith in _him_ , respectively.

Except how would things have turned out if he hadn’t stopped Mister Toomes or that chain of events from occurring?

Sure, Liz would still be in the same school and she’d have her dad, but how many innocent people would now be dead because of the weapons Mr. Toomes had sold? How many more bank robberies would there have been? How many people would have lost their lives if Peter hadn’t brought that plane down when and where he did?

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” he quotes shrewdly, inclining his head in agreement toward his aunt, still tense and eyeing her anxiously. “But, May, if we let our fears paralyse us, nothing will ever change. No one would ever do anything good.”

May stares at him wordlessly, her expression indecipherable but her eyes an ocean of emotion, and when she speaks again it is with a quiet tightness in her throat that threatens of tears and makes Peter want to retract every word because he can't stand to see his aunt cry.

“I know,” she responds softly. There's a nostalgia in her face that Peter hesitates to guess at.

Swallowing hard, he drops his gaze to his hands. Whilst at the same time, she takes a deep breath.

“Alright, I’ll… _try_ to warm up to Stark,” May declares, interlocking her fingers. “But no promises.”

He holds his hands up in a conciliatory way.

“Fine by me,” he replies, picking himself up and hoisting his bag up from off the floor.

“Good,” she nods firmly, lightening her tone. “Now you'd better do that homework.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going, I'm going," he bats the air as he turns and makes his way to his bedroom. "After I take a nap." He adds under his breath.

~

Four am rolls around and, big surprise, he's awake. The vividness of his nightmares combined with sheer panic jolts him awake like something electric, but at least he doesn't hit his head on the top bunk like he did a couple of nights ago – there's still a bruise along his hairline from that but it's well-concealed enough that, thankfully, Ned has thus far neglected to notice it. No, this time his waking might have even looked peaceful, per contra to reality. Of the many fitful nightmares he's had, several of them have involved glowing green eyes and fire and blood, though this time it was nothing more than unmoveable weight pressing down his chest, daring him to breathe. He's started sleeping with the sheets off, but that's hardly helping at all and just leaves him cold.

Peter waits for his racing heart to climb down from the speed of twenty racehorses before he sits himself upright and slowly takes deep, shuddering breaths. Outside his window, the street light blinks on and off erratically, it's tiny tinking noise the only sound he can hear. The silence makes him shiver.

Slipping out of bed, Peter grabs his pillow, his phone and the mask from his suit and pulls the chair out from his desk, propping it next to the window.

There will be no more sleep tonight and it isn't worth even trying. The hour provides a familiar routine now: Nightmare. Wake. Sentry duty. Accidentally fall asleep. Wake. Accidentally fall asleep. Nightmare. Wake. Morning.

Looking down at the street below he sees nothing but the same calm and quiet he's observed every night this week. Unfortunately, it leaves him with nothing else to do but dwell upon what Ned pointed out at school – the fact that he should tell Mr. Stark about the woman and the nightmares.

It's so frustrating that Ned just doesn't get why he _can't_ do that. What if Mr. Stark tells May? What if they think his life is in danger or something and they take away his suit? He'd _never_ find out about the woman if they did that! They think he's a kid, but when will Mr. Stark see he's more than that?

_Probably never_.

He feels himself sagging in his chair, dejected by his own train of thought as he thumbs the material of the mask in his hands. If he wasn't grounded he could go out now, he could find the woman on his own.

Except that he _is_ and he _can't_.

Slipping the mask on over his head he sees everything light up and the familiar blue tint of Mr. Stark's designs.

“Good evening Peter,” Karen says in his ear, as cheerful as ever. “I hope you're not planning to go out as Spiderman tonight. I would have to report you to Mr. Stark, per the Super Nanny protocol if you didn't observe your grounding for the full month.”

_The Super Nanny protocol?!_ He grits his teeth and rolls his eyes, only refraining from a snarky comment because he knows it's not Karen's fault the protocols are named things that make him feel like a toddler.

“Relax Karen,” he sighs, “I'm not going anywhere. I just needed some company.”

“Peter, I have limited data owing to the fact that you are not wearing the whole suit, but I do believe your body is under some stress. You appear to be suffering from sleep deprivation.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” he chuckles back humourlessly.

“Okay,” she replies in her chipper tone. “Here is something you might not know: marsupials are any member of the mammalian infraclass Marsupialia. All extant marsupials are endemic to Australisa and the Americas―”

“I didn't mean that _literally,_ Karen.”

“You told me to tell you something you didn't know,” her voice echoes in his head. “As I am not completely aware of what you do and don't already know, I chose a topic at random. Would you prefer something more relevant?”

“I… didn't mean it like that, but sure, whatever. So long as it'll keep me awake.”

“Very well,” she responds. “Your suit is due for maintenance in three months, the parachute still needs replacing and the drone battery is at five percent – would you like recommended retailers that supply quality parachutes?”

It's the bit about the drone that catches his ear, making him straighten in his chair, his eyes never leaving the empty street outside.

“Hang on, why is the drone battery so low?” He hasn't even touched the thing since he used it at the Washington monument.

“The drone has been in continuous use since Mr. Stark activated the Baby Sitter protocol – a subset of the Baby Monitor protocol.”

“The Baby Sitter protocol, what is that?”

“It relays information about your vitals to Mr. Stark when you are not wearing the suit.”

“… what.”

“It relays information about your vitals to―”

“No, I heard you the first time, Karen,” he huffs, frustrated exasperation leaking into his voice. He links his fingers together and tightens the grip until his knuckles go white. “But let me get this straight. The Baby Sitter protocol is basically watching me whenever I'm _not_ in the suit. Are… you saying that Mr. Stark is _spying_ on me?”

“No,” Karen replies. “The Baby Sitter protocol only alerts Mr. Stark if trigger words are spoken. It does, however, allow him to view your vitals at any time, but the protocol was never intended to invade your privacy, Peter.”

The way she says it makes his chest tighten into an ache and his whole body shiver reflexively, like it knows to expect the worst. For some stupid reason, he'd thought he'd earned a modicum of trust from Mr. Stark, but it's something more than bruised pride and wounded faith he feels.

“Oh my god,” he whispers through unmoving lips, the bubble of anger deflating into hurt. “He's freaking _spying_ on me.” It feels as though someone's whipped his heart directly and the sting from the lash is the only thing he can feel.

“Well, where is the drone now, Karen?” he continues, muttering through clenched teeth as he brings his voice back down to a hum.

She doesn't reply, but Peter sees his school bag move out of the corner of his eye and a little spider-shaped drone emerges like some tiny transformer, taking wing and flying over. It sets itself down on the windowsill and then packs itself up, leaving him to stare at it with irritation.

“Karen,” he asks finally, unlinking his fingers to pick at a hangnail on his ring finger. “Can you shut off the Baby Sitter protocol?”

“I'm sorry Peter, only Mr. Stark has the authorisation to do that.”

Figures. He picks at the hangnail, thinking the new information over, until he eventually bites the bullet and rips the skin clean off. It bleeds a little, so he lifts the mask just high enough that he can slip his finger into his mouth and suck away the blood.

Oddly, the taste of iron hitting his tongue is the thing that spurs the realisation about his constant anxiety― his _Spidey-Sense_ as he's been calling it, though it certainly needs a better name than that.

If the drone had been watching him this whole time…maybe it wasn't the random woman… What if in fact Ned was right and she _had_ just been a stranger on the street wearing headphones and minding her own business?It… makes a lot of sense, given the information he's learned tonight. The pieces slot together perfectly, as much as he hates that they do.

The reason he's been so restless. The sleeplessness and nightmares from his spidey-sense… It was because of Mr. Stark this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Sorry. I have no excuse other than the classic, "is this good enough?" and then the eventual, "omg who cares, stop editing this for the billionth time." I'm just never happy with what I write and I need to sometimes accept that and move on.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this longer chapter!


	5. Raising A Spider (Part 5)

CHAPTER FIVE

~

Although he's a little early, Tony indicates into the school's parking lot and follows the empty rows until he finds the perfect park at the back, skirting the edge of the baseball field fence and far enough away from the entrance that no student will pass him by accident on their way out. Not that there'd be too many kids left at high school on a Friday night at six-forty-pm.

The oppressive, muggy heat from the day has dissipated and left a cool breeze in its wake, ushering in the night along with the pleasant change. Peering up through the windshield, Tony notices how clear the navy sky is and how brightly the twinkling lights in the milky-way paint the velvet star-scape above, even as he yanks up the handbrake and switches off the ignition with the knowledge that he'll have a good twenty minutes to stare at it before Peter emerges.

Releasing his grip upon the wheel, the car shudders with relief as the engine dies away and the quiet that follows it would be peaceful if he wasn't so tense, strung with anxiety as taught as a bowstring. It _would_ be peaceful, but the silence only serves to quieten the outside world, which has prevented his poisonous thoughts from obtaining a foothold in his brain, thoughts that mostly revolve around how much is going to change in the next month and what he has to do and finish before the current month is out.

He's getting _married_ in less than two weeks.

Pepper's got her dress, he's got his suit, they've both picked out rings for each other. It's real. It's really happening. It's not just some fantasy anymore, he's marrying the love of his life and he's scared as hell. He's almost grateful that Peter seems to be going through some sort of teenage angst, because focusing on the kid's problems is keeping his overwhelming panic in check.

Tony's breath hitches for a moment as he exhales deeply. Closing his eyes to lean forward, pressing his pounding forehead against the dark rim of the steering wheel. God, he's just so exhausted. And he's got a million things left to do. He hasn't even finished his vows yet, let alone practiced them.

How did he even get here. With everything that's happened in the last two and a half years, how has he managed to find this small slice of happiness? How has he managed _not_ to fuck it up yet? That's all he ever seems to do.

It feels as though time passes with his thoughts, but his mind is too lethargic to keep up with it along with his tunnelling brain, digging him deeper into desolation quicksand. He falls into a space somewhere between consciousness and the void of sleep, his gritty eyes watering with relief as soon as they slide closed. All he knows is one minute Peter isn't there and the next he's tapping gently on the car window with a face as exhausted as Tony's.

Initially, he jerks in surprise at the noise cutting through his hypnotic state, but upon dragging his head up and seeing the kid outside the passenger door, he unlocks the car to allow the kid in.

Peter beats him to the greeting, voice rough with fatigue as he climbs into the car. “Hi Mr. Stark,” he smiles weakly, slamming the door closed. “Thank you for picking me up.”

“Hey bud,” he throws the same smile back in response as Peter shoves his schoolbag down by his feet. “How was school today?”

“Fine,” Peter answers monosyllabically as Tony reaches for the keys, sending the engine flaring to life. “Long.”

Tony can't help but slip another smile at their dual sense of enervation.

“I know how you feel,” he mumbles quietly, not sure if it's loud enough to be heard.

They trundle off the school property, the car practically rolling out onto the road where they then begin to pick up speed.

Maybe it is the exhaustion they both feel, or maybe it is leftover awkwardness from their last encounter, perhaps it is both, but whatever the reason, they don't talk. The only sound comes from the engine and the outside world, but Tony glances over occasionally, checking in on Peter whose expression and posture resembles a wrung out dish rag.

He knows it's because Peter hasn't been sleeping. Tony hadn't said anything to May about it because it wasn't his place, but with the way Peter looks, he's starting to think he should have. Not that it would have been something easy to bring up without revealing his stunt with the drone, but Friday reported an average of three hours a night in which Peter was actually unconscious and now that he's seeing the kid, a clear edge of worry has slid into his mind. Maybe he shouldn't have left it this long. There's something wrong. Tony knew that last time he saw the kid, but now it's more than obvious.

Something has to be said. Whatever is bothering Peter, he's getting to the bottom of it, whether or not the kid wants to answer him honestly. Somehow he thought it would resolve itself, but that's clearly not the case.

“You look like you're about to drop off into dreamland, sport.” It's an easy opening, an undeniable target that the kid cannot rebuff.

Peter hums back in agreement. “It's been a long week,” he answers cryptically.

Tony probes, but he doesn't want to reveal too much of what he knows. Peter has to come to him about this because if the kid knows he's been _spied_ on, for lack of a better word, he's not sure how he'll react.

“You been getting enough sleep?” he glances over again uneasily. “You resemble Bruce after a science week binge.”

“Or you?” Peter rolls his eyes, subtly attempting to divert the conversation. His voice has lightened, but it's clearly an effort to keep it upbeat, especially given the look and air of weariness Peter had worn only moments ago.

Tony won't let him though. “Or me,” he agrees seriously. “But you definitely shouldn't be looking like me, buddy. You're fifteen, not forty.” he quirks an eyebrow, playing the part of the concerned parent.

Peter looks immediately uncomfortable, as though he's trying to convince Tony he's done something he shouldn't have – like go out as Spiderman. It's good acting, but Tony knows the kid hasn't been anywhere. And the kid knows he knows too, as much as his lie is trying to persuade otherwise.

“Don't even try to pull that one over me.” He acknowledges without acknowledging. "What's wrong?"

Peter drops the act and his face falls into something apathetic.

“It's nothing.”

The words are very sharp, daring him to push further. But Tony's already made up his mind and Peter's not getting out of this conversation until he's given up the answer.

“It's not nothing,” he decides, voice ringing sharp and clear. “What's wrong, Peter? Don't deny it, I know there's something going on with you.”

“It's just been a long week, okay? Can we please let this go?” he's refusing to face Tony, his chin pressed up against his hand against the window, deliberately keeping his eyes on the road outside and watching the passing traffic in the opposite lane.

“No can do, sport. You're giving me an answer.”

“It's not your business!” he ejects. “I'm fine.”

“I'm making it my business.” Tony replies calmly, keeping his tone controlled, focusing on the road. Looking at Peter won't get the answer out of him, nor will making him feel cornered. So he gives Peter the dignity of avoiding eye contact. “You lied to me last week when you said you were fine and I know you're lying to me now. I need the truth, Peter. How can I trust you if you're going to lie to me?”

Peter explodes. It's like ravenous fireworks going off on the fourth of July, but the sight isn't pretty. It's furious.

“You want to talk about _truth?_ ” he shouts, finally turning an angry gaze on Tony. “What about you?! You _bugged_ me!”

Now it's Tony's turn to look uncomfortable, but it's not an act.

“That's different―”

“How!?”

Well, he has to give the kid credit for finding out on his own. Though, whilst he's impressed, it does put a sizeable wedge in the way. _The adult is talking_ isn't going to be able to cut it this time, not if he's ever going to be able to look Peter in the eye again and not feel like a hypocrite. Damn it. Why's this kid so intelligent?

“Because it is!” he shouts back, annoyed Peter doesn't see the difference. “You're only fifteen and you've decided to go vigilante with your superpowers and you _just don't understand what kind of people are out there!_ ”

The kid has taken up an indignant look, tainted with poorly concealed confusion and surprise.

Tony suddenly feels guilty about using such fire with the kid. Never before has he so heatedly rebuked him, not even when lambasting him about the incident with the ferry, or even last Friday. And though Tony knows Peter's not great at listening to him and heeding his advice, he needs Peter to hear and understand this.

Tony brings his voice back down to something more reserved, but it is still thick with emotion as his mind dwells in and dredges up the past.

“There… are people out there,” he begins again haltingly, hesitating over his words. He's not fixating on the road for Peter's sake this time. “And they're not like Mr. Toomes. They're much, _much_ worse.”

The kid has gone quiet in his seat, but his hands have curled into balled fists and rest on his knees, his eyes have focused themselves onto some point on Tony's dashboard. To anyone else, it might appear as though he isn't listening, but his spine has taken up a hunched position and his expression seems to convey an understanding of Tony's words that the man thought Peter would still be incapable of comprehending. Tony realises he's struck some sort of chord with the boy, so he continues, hoping beyond all things that Peter will finally let him in.

“I don't know how much you know about the time I was kidnapped in Afghanistan, but I never could bring myself to tell half of the story to the media anyway.” It isn't odd that he starts losing sensation in his toes, or that his fingertips start to tremble, or that his breath hitches and starts up again with a renewed sense of urgency as his mind throws him ten years into the past. No, all of that is disturbingly familiar.

“I know they were called the Ten Rings.” Peter offers quietly, his eyes not wavering from the dash, allowing Tony the dignity of his emotions and an escape route to preserve himself in if he wishes.

“That's right, they were,” the older man gives a humourless chuckle, but apparently the noise unnerves Peter, because he flinches in his seat. “The Ten Rings. It was such a long time ago, but I still remember their faces. The worst part was when I found out Stane was behind it all along, a man I thought I could trust.”

Not that that was the only time someone close had betrayed him, nor was it the most painful or grievous to him. It was simply the first.

More silence fills the space between them, but it is a break before the dam bursts. A pause that holds the promise of something more. The quiet is merely so Tony can steal himself out of his memories and back into the present.

“I have issues with trust, but you already know that, and I won't offer that as an excuse for invading your privacy, for which I apologise.” Biting the inside of his lip brings a tang of iron, and he quickly realises he's drawn blood. “But you should know that it was not without reason. Nor is it you.”

Puzzlement is the first thing he sees written across Peter's face when he glances over and finds the boy's gaze lifted to meet his own, so he clarifies.

“What I mean to say is: It's not _you_ I distrust. It's the people you might make enemies of.”

“You think I might catch the attention of someone like the Ten Rings.” Peter postulates, keenly catching on to the point of his disjointed story.

“Yes.” He nods, catching the kid's eye again for the briefest of moments. “And you have to forgive me, kiddo, but with the way you were acting… I had to make sure it wasn't something serious.”

An odd sense of relief sweeps through Tony as he pulls into the fast food joint and joins the line of cars waiting to order their burgers. He's never really been the greatest at getting his meaning across, but the thoughtfulness in Peter's face gives Tony a bubbling sense of hope.

Yet, when Peter opens his mouth to speak again and words tumble out of it, Tony feels himself going dizzy as the blood rushes from his face.

“Ned says I'm crazy,” is what the kid opens with. “And maybe he's right, I dunno. But… was the drone the only one?”

Tony's mind does something funny in that it very quickly becomes filled with black and white static, like it's trying to delay Peter's words from reaching him. Denying him the conclusion it so desperately wants to reach, the part of him fearing the worst becoming the loudest voice in his head.

“The only what, kiddo?” he asks, sure he doesn't want to hear the answer.

Peter's hands start fidgeting in his lap and a blush rises in his face, a clear sign he's about to admit something he finds embarrassing. “The… only monitoring-thingy.”

Tony's mouth suddenly goes dry, right as they pull up to the speaker. “Yes, why?”

The kid's eyes flick across.

“I think someone's been watching me.”

And with that, Tony's heart damn well near stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a roller-coaster. Anxiety, heart-to-hearts (again. heck.), completely freaking out your psudo-dad. Poor Tony's had a rough car ride.
> 
> This chapter was much shorter than intended, but hey, apparently this is the way the dice are rolling for this story (last one was too long, this time too short). The original plan was to get Tony to sweat it out but Peter couldn't contain his knowledge about the drone situation and I'm clearly far too impatient to be a novelist, (get to the good stuff damn it, I want feelings!!!), but I do like it a lot how it is and I didn't want to overthink it and end up ruining it.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts? I really appreciate the lovely comments I've received. I go back and re-read them when I'm feeling demotivated. Plus sometimes I feel super disjointed with my writing and it's reassuring to know when I'm getting the point across - I really don't want to confuse anyone on this journey.
> 
> I'll stop rambling now.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope to see you all again next time! (Also, happy birthday Cap'n and my American friends!)


	6. Raising A Spider (Part 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as like, part two of the previous chapter ;D

 

CHAPTER SIX

~

In the aftermath of his words, all Peter can hear is his own breathing and the soft idle of the engine humming gently beneath the hood.

Mr. Stark has tightened his grip on the steering wheel with enough force that Peter can see the white of bone beneath his knuckles. The man appears to have lost himself in another plane of existence, eyes glazed over as though glancing into a future with only death, his posture as stiff as a cadaver. Everything about the tenseness of the man's frame sends shivers of nervousness up Peter's spine and makes him inwardly wince in the uncomfortable quiet.

Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

Time warps around them like light. It exists, but it's eternal. The car has become a bubble in which nothing and everything is happening all at once. It's disturbing and yet peaceful, as though this non-existent time is the calm before the storm.

Whether one minute or ten passes before Mr. Stark appears to breathe out, Peter can't be sure, but suddenly, when the motion brings about a slight relaxation of the older man's shoulders, time seems to jerk and hop back into motion like a poorly controlled stick shift lurching forward and flinging everyone along with it.

The man seems to have returned to his own body, but the reanimation of his mentor does nothing to relieve Peter's own tension – his insides feel like a wind-up toy has been let loose inside, jumping up and down in his stomach. It's making him a little nauseous and the smell of fried food coming in from the burger joint isn't exactly helping his situation, regardless of how hungry he was just sixty seconds ago.

When Mr. Stark finally opens his mouth to speak, Peter cannot help but stiffen in his seat. But, very slowly, the older man turns away from him to the speaker on his left, calmly ordering their burgers without so much as batting an eyelid in his direction.

As Tony is listing out their request, Peter decides upon a preemptive approach. Before the dam can burst, he'll pries open the overflow, chip away at the silence jammed between them like a wall. It's probably his best shot for now, but it doesn't stop him from shrinking in on himself as he makes the initial crack.

“Mr. Stark?” he quavers after Tony is done with their order, cringing at the tinny timbre and prepubescent octave it comes out at. “Are you… okay?”

Tony doesn't look at him, but at least he answers honestly.

“No.”

Peter winces again.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly, though at this point he's not entirely sure what he's apologising for. He just hangs his head so he doesn't have to look at the forced calm of Mr. Stark's expression. It's creeping him out a little. “I didn't mean to… upset you?”

“There's nothing you need to apologise for, kiddo.”

It feels a little like a reprimand, but Peter knows it's not intended as such when the second half comes out as hardly more than a pained sigh.

“This… is on me.”

Guilt rolls over him in waves, but nothing intelligent comes to mind, so his mouth snaps closed and his attention turns to the server window they've rolled up to.

Mr. Stark takes their brown bag from the cashier and thanks her as he hands over cash, shoving the bag into Peter's hands.

He can't help but stare at the burger bag miserably.

“… are you going to take my suit away?”

It's barely audible, but Mr. Stark hears him. He's asked the question, but he doesn't really want to hear the answer.

“No,” the older man rumbles. “I'm not.”

Peter's heart jolts with hope, eyes flicking up to search for the lie within the man's face. He doesn't see it though. Honestly has settled into the lines of his expression.

“You might need it,” Mr. Stark continues, the strain in his voice still lingering as his voice drops into a whisper.

Warmth spreads through him like wildfire and he feels as though he should shout his relief from the rooftops, but somehow he manages to keep it all contained to a smile and soft “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet, kid,” Tony rumbles again. “We've not even made it to the woods yet, let alone come out of them unscathed.”

“Right,” he says, the smile dropping off his face.

Tony pulls out of the drive through and turns back onto the main road as Peter reaches into the burger bag and pulls out a cheeseburger to hand over.

Mr. Stark takes it wordlessly, but he spares a worried glance in Peter's direction. His face wears the look of a man searching for a solution whilst drowning in a deepening pool of panic, but he's sure trying his hardest not to let it show. It twists something deep and guilt-ridden in Peter's gut, but for the time being, he chooses to push it down firmly and ignore it with all the willpower he can muster.

Pulling his own burger out of the bag he unwraps it and bites down hard, the flavour hitting his tongue with a chorus of promised taste that is somehow becomes bland the moment he begins to chew. Everything tastes like sandpaper and chaff, but in order to avoid having to make another attempt at conversation or acknowledge the anxiety dripping off his mentor like water, he stuffs the burger in his mouth, steering clear of accidental eye contact by staring out the passenger window.

Not another word is spoken between them until Peter reaches for the fries at the bottom of the paper bag.

“We gotta tell your aunt.”

Peter's head jerks up in surprise at the statement, his mouth full of over-seasoned french-fries. He probably looks like a frog, but Mr. Stark doesn't seem to notice. The older man isn't even halfway through his forgotten burger, instead his jaw works stiffly, as though a rod of iron has been drilled along the bone. Eyes swirling with what could bloom into a haunted expression if left unchecked.

“You guys might have to lay low for a while,” he continues, a pinched expression forming upon his brow to accompany the already harrowed look. “I've got a place on the coast that might be suitable for you both to stay,” the frown on his forehead creases further, “or actually maybe the bunker upstate would be better―”

Managing to swallow his mouthful, Peter interjects with a forceful noise of exclamatory alarm that isn't really any word but somehow conveys the appropriate meaning.

The sound apparently startles a jerk of silence out of Mr. Stark, but then a sound of disapproval emits from his throat, chased by, _“_ She should know.”

“Please Mr. Stark you _can't!_ ” he pleads, the salt from the fries making his tongue slow, childishly clinging to the idea that he can keep this all from May, even though it's wrong. He doesn't want everything to change, as infantile as that notion already is given the current information at hand.

“She deserves to know what's happening, kiddo.” Mr. Stark says, adopting a softer edge to his voice as the man reads his emotions like a page printed in bold. “Don't you think she at least deserves that?”

Whatever thought or protest he's about to voice next dies on Peter's dry tongue. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, his entire body twists with shame at the idea of putting May in danger without the foreknowledge to protect herself. Mr. Stark is right. There isn't anything he would put before May, not even Spiderman. If giving it up would keep her safe then… then he would.

“She does,” he sighs, momentarily closing his eyes and allowing his head to flop back against the head-rest.

For the briefest moment he gets the odd feeling that Mr. Stark is smiling, but when he opens his eyes the man's expression is blank, eyes fixated on the road ahead.

“Don't worry, kid,” Mr. Stark says solemnly a few moments later. “We'll do it together. I'll take the heat.”

Peter's ears prick.

“The heat?”

Mr. Stark shrugs and glances down at his food before his gaze diverts back to the road.

“You wouldn't be in this situation if I hadn't given you that suit,” he admits easily as Peter feels his stomach drop. “I know that, May knows that. I'll take full responsibility.”

No. No no no. They're not going there again.

“The suit has nothing to do with this,” he protests. “I would have gone out as Spiderman whether or not I ended up with the suit.”

“No, it does.” Mr. Stark disagrees, his voice unnervingly calm and quiet even as a crack in the tone gives away his emotion. “It's probably the worst thing I could have done for you Peter, don't you get that?”

The way his brain forces his body to pause is almost jarring, but Mr. Stark takes advantage of his silence and presses on.

“I was… messed up. I shouldn't have put that pressure on your shoulders. If you could forgive me for what I've done I would beg for it, but I know you don't understand yet and one day you will and you'll hate me for it. Please, just give me a little more time to be selfish. Just a little longer.”

Confused by this, he immediately begins to rebuff the idea.

“I don't hate you Mr. Stark, never.”

A mysterious, cynical smile tugs at the corners of the older man's lips, leaving Peter with a sour taste in his mouth and shudder running up his back like a mallet on a marimba.

“You should,” his mentor counters, the words almost toxic. “You will.”

Peter desperately wishes he knew what to say, how to protest this idea, but words never follow his heart's desire to argue the statement and they lapse into silence again, leaving him to ponder those equally dispiriting and confusing words.

For some reason it very much feels as though they're having two distinctly different conversations, like Mr. Stark is four pages ahead of him in whatever novel life has presented them with. It seems as though he's waiting for Peter to catch up, to figure out the joke, the question to the very mysterious answer Tony's already given him. He could ask directly, but he knows he won't get a straightforward answer. In this man's eyes he's just a kid.

They enter the highway and the ride settles into something almost peaceful as Peter settles his head against the cool glass of the window, feeling himself being lulled to sleep by the consistent sound of rolling tires on the tarmac and the occasional overtaking car. Tony's characteristic scent – aftershave and the barest hint of oil matched by a whiff of scented hair gel – swells around him in the car, carried by the thrumming air-conditioning and filling him with a sense of safety that he won't dare to analyse for fear of finding something Tony might shun. For a while he manages to keep his eyes open, staring up at the moon and speckled stars that dot the night sky or at the few cars and motorcycles that pass on the opposite side of the road barrier, but he'd be the first to admit that the long day is really catching up with him and the nights without proper sleep have really taken their toll. The fatigue, coupled with the silence of each blinking streetlight they pass, plus his full stomach, is dragging his heavy eyelids ever further downwards until all he can see is the faint light behind his lids when they pass a particularly bright lamp-post.

If Mr. Stark notices his closed eyes, he doesn't comment, for which Peter is grateful. A quiet sniff from the drivers seat is all he hears. In Tony's presence, the anxiety inducing tingle that's plagued his every waking moment seems to have almost disappeared, leaving space for his muscles to relax and his neck to loll and before long, he hears rain. A few heavy drops at first, growing into a light shower, slowly pulling him under, the final string to consciousness snapping, allowing him to succumb to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it. July is done. August is here. Hallelujah.
> 
> Honestly, every paragraph felt like wading through mud and sand! Connecting with Peter was super difficult this chapter because I had to put myself in the mind of someone who didn't know what was going on and obviously, I know where this is going. I've always found that hard though, so please let me know if this chapter made any sense at all!
> 
> Also, thank you for the inspiring comments on chapter five. I'm sorry I couldn't get this chapter to you sooner. I loved every single one of them, thank you!


	7. Raising A Spider (Part 7)

CHAPTER SEVEN  
~

They don't even make it halfway home before Tony hears the soft, tell-tale sound of even breathing from the passenger seat, the noise joining the grain of the rain and the humming engine as they finally exit off the highway. A rightward glance only confirms Peter to be out for the count, face uncomfortably smooshed up against the window and frowning in his sleep, looking small and easily breakable, curling in on himself like something reminiscent of a baby armadillo. A fondness washes over Tony at the sight, chased by a fierce wave of protection.

Well, at least the kid is getting some sleep. The teen’s recent lack of it is almost as concerning as the situation Peter’s currently found himself in, i.e. the unwanted follower he’s acquired.

Except Tony can do something about the stalker, he can't do anything against insomnia. As pointless as it is to think, he can't help but wish that Peter had come to him sooner. Though, there’s nothing to be done about that now, he supposes.

The thought crosses his mind, but not wanting to wake the kid, he doesn't bother with the radio. Unfortunately, the side-effect is that it does leave him alone with his thoughts, the question of how he'll break this new information to the kid's aunt hanging heavily in the forefront of his mind.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? Sorry? Tony is supposed to protect Peter from stuff like this. The kid isn't meant to be taking out spies and assassins and watching his back for government organisations that supposedly don’t exist. Peter is supposed to be everybody's friendly, neighbourhood Spiderman — the superhero who gives directions to tourists and assists old women in crossing the street. Tony had sworn to her that he’d do everything in his power to protect him from danger after she'd found out Spiderman's secret identity was her nephew, but their relationship was still tenuous at best. Breaking this to her might end Peter's superhero career, as heartbreaking as that would be for the kid.

“Friday,” he murmurs, voice low as he addresses the A.I. in his wrist watch. “Open a new text message to May Parker.”

“Yes, Boss,” the feminine voice replies just as quietly, already aware of the sleeping passenger in the car. “What would you like it to say?”

“Just tell her that she and I need to talk,” he answers, roughly dragging his left hand over his goatee and keeping his right affixed to the wheel. “And that we'll be waiting for her when she gets home.”

“Okay Boss.” Friday acknowledges, quickly followed up by, “Message sent.”

With the exchange finished, Tony tries to settle into his seat as the car lapses into quiet again, but every muscle in his body feels taut with anxiety.

God, he should probably call his therapist, he feels like a wreck.

The interior of the car suddenly feels incredibly small and pressurised, silently threatening Tony to drop the proverbial match. Light his whole world on fire and promptly throw himself in after, but he can't give in to that feeling. He has to keep it together. Act normal. At least for a week. Just one week. Then he'll start looking into Peter's stalker. The wedding will be done, he'll call his therapist. Until then he just has to make sure Peter stays safe.

 

* * *

 

It feels almost mean to wake the kid when they arrive. Peter's face is all scrunched up, hair pushed up on the right side where his head is propped against the window and he’s snoring softly. It's cute, but Tony can't carry the kid on his own, he's fifteen, so he shakes him gently and says Peter's name a few times until he rapidly blinks himself awake, looking mildly surprised about it.

Tony catches his attention with a smile.

“Hey.”

Peter doesn't respond for a moment, his eyes looking beyond Tony, toward the apartment block with sleep still heavy in his glazed eyes.

“We're here, time to wake up.”

“I… fell asleep?” he asks, a quizzical look partnering with his new hairdo. It's an amusing look, but Tony keeps that thought to himself.

“You sure did, buddy,” he winks, teasing. “You were tired. I thought I'd let you sleep.”

Peter looks surprised by this information, but Tony doesn't let him dwell on it.

“Come on,” he prompts, opening his car door. “Let's get you inside, huh? Then you can sleep in your bed, which I'm sure is far more comfortable.”

Peter nods tiredly, grabbing his bag from beside his feet before stepping out of the car himself, fiddling with his house keys as he climbs the steps to the door. Tony follows him inside, but the kid seems too tired to question it as they climb the five flights of stairs to the top floor.

Peter dumps his school bag by the entranceway, never stopping his tired shuffle as he heads off toward the bathroom, presumably to clean his teeth and wash his face before bed.

Tony, meanwhile, ventures into the kitchen and spots a coffee pot on the counter with an unreasonable amount of relief. He sets it on the stove after filling it with water and turns the gas on with a flick of his wrist before rifling through the Parker family’s pantry to find a tin labelled ‘Instant Coffee’.

Moments later, as Tony is heaping in teaspoons of dried coffee into a mug, Peter shuffles into the kitchen, this time dressed in holey tracksuit pants and a faded shirt that reads: 'I Make Bad Science Jokes Because All The Good Ones Argon'.

Suddenly, Tony feels a very violent and unhealthy urge to buy the teen some better science pun t-shirts. Thankfully, Peter pulls him out of that thought.

“G'night Mr. Stark,” he yawns. “Are you staying the night? I can pull out the couch if you like?”

Tony feels a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth. “No, sport, but good night. Get some sleep, 'kay?”

Peter nods with a quiet, “Okay, night,” and then gives a little wave, trundling off toward his bedroom.

How domestic, Tony’s mind supplies, accompanied by a wash of affection for the tired teen as he waves after him before turning back to check the progress of his boiling water.

Pepper would smirk at him if he told her, but Tony doesn’t particularly care. He’s already said it to the kid before, but he really is like a son to him. He’d tell the whole world if it wouldn’t put Peter’s identity in danger.

Halfway through his second cup of coffee he hears the sound of the door, keys clattering into the bowl in the hall before the sight of May Parker in scrubs rounds the entranceway to the kitchen. A look of mild surprise overtakes her features as she hesitates by the frame for a moment, but it is immediately chased away as she steps into the room, appearing to steel herself as her features harden.

“I got your text,” are her opening words as she crosses the room, discarding her handbag by the foot of the table. “Is Peter alright?”

Her parental concern fills him with a similar protectiveness, but he keeps his face passive and patiently takes a sip of coffee, still hot in the mug.

“Asleep,” he answers monosyllabically, placating her panic. “Don't worry, he's fine. Just tired.”

Relief crosses her face, replacing the anxiety that's manifested there. The tension eases out of her posture as she pulls out a chair opposite him and slides into it with a sigh.

“So,” she begins anew, folding her hands on the table and resting her weight upon her elbows. “What's the big emergency then?”

Instead of aiming directly for the crux of the matter, he builds up the nerve. What a coward he is.

“It seems you're not the only one your nephew has been keeping secrets from,” he divulges cryptically, watching her eyes narrow minutely and her posture stiffen.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her reply is low and suspicious, filled with an underlying hint of worry.

Tony takes another sip of coffee, bolstering himself.

“There's no great way of saying this, so I'm just going to come out and say it,” he sighs, briefly closing his eyes, hoping once again for Peter's sake that this isn't the end of his career as Spiderman.

“That would best,” comes a waspish interjection. “Yes.”

Tony sets his mug down and meets her gaze.

“Peter seems to… uh, have acquired an undesirable follower. That is to say, a stalker, if you will.”

There's a pause in the conversation as she digests this, and then,

“A stalker?”

“Apparently.”

May leans back in her chair, her eyes flicking to the ceiling as she lets out a puff of air.

“How long?” she says a moment later. “How long has he had this 'stalker'?”

“I don't know,” Tony confesses, picking up his half drained mug again now that the secret is out. “Admittedly, I only just found out myself.”

She frowns at this admission, her eyes coming back to his face, even as he drops his own gaze.

“He told me in the car,” Tony explains, eyeing the liquid in the mug tiredly as he swishes it around the cup. The caffeine doesn't seem to be helping him much with this conversation, all he feels is the day's exhaustion. “And then I messaged you. He wasn't too keen on admitting it to me, but it seemed less likely that he'd come to you about it. I think he was afraid of worrying you, but he… hasn't quite grasped the idea of not keeping things like this from the people that love you.”

For a moment, Tony thinks he's overstepped his bounds, but when he looks up and sees her hand pressed against her forehead and deep emotion swelling within her eyes, he thinks he might have said just enough.

“Thank you for telling me,” she halting expresses, her gratitude almost tangible. It look like she has a lot to say, but those few words are the only checked ones. The rest comes out seemingly without thought.

“These last couple of years… he's been keeping bigger and bigger secrets from me,” she shakes her head, but continues. “When is he going to go out and do something dangerous and not come home again? Am I even going to know?”

Tony glimpses what he thinks is desperation in her face as her gaze finally reaches his, searching his eyes for something. It feels as though he should say something, but Tony just can't access the words. His mouth feels slack jawed and useless, though in reality he is clamping down hard with his molars, biting off anything that might exit his mouth without first passing his brain. It gives her time to recover her reaction, closing her emotions off before she continues.

“I… I've been meaning to ask you this for a while,” she carries on, changing tangent. “But you really care for him, don't you?”

“Immensely,” is his immediate answer. “He's like the kid I never had.”

She chuckles a little at this.

“Me too,” she agrees.

They share in a smile, but the smile drops away in the aftermath of her next question.

“Will you keep protecting him?”

“Of course,” he nods seriously.

“Would you… consider guardianship?”

That certainly gives him pause. A jarring, confusing pause.

“Guardianship?” he parrots.

Her face hardens.

“Yes,” she says, the only betrayal of her emotions being the twitching of her fingers and the halting way in which she hesitates over her choice of words. “I… need to know if you'll be there for him. Even if I'm not.”

Tony looks her dead in the eye, feeling rather trapped by this new turn in the conversation, but she's not done yet.

“I'm the only family Peter has left. If anything happens to me, he hasn't got anybody. I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you weren't up for the task. Or the right person to ask.”

He's all but abandoned his coffee now, but something sends a shiver up his spine and disperses all over his skin. More than half a minute passes before he answers, but her eyes never waver from him as he pretends to think it through. There’s no question, really. He knows that, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s being flippant with his answer.

“Yes,” he answers simply. “Yes, I will.”

She gives him the briefest of smiles.

“Thank you,” she whispers, tone full of relief.

“But I don't think we should tell him,” Tony adds, earning him a curious look. “He doesn't need to be thinking that I'm going to replace you or anything. We should keep this between us, at least for now.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “I can accept those terms.”

“When the right time shows itself, then we'll tell him,” Tony continues, wording himself carefully. He wants to tell Peter, he does, but that's not what the kid needs right now. He doesn't need to be assuming they're doing this because someone has threatened May or that it's the kid's fault. When everything has simmered down, then Tony and May will sit him down and they'll talk about it, but not until the time is right. Peter does let these things get into his head, but maybe that's just his age. Maybe it's something he'll grow out of, though if Tony's being perfectly honest with himself, it doesn't seem likely.

“Well,” he exhales, “I should probably get going. I'm sure you're exhausted after your shift, so I'll get out of your hair.”

She gives him a brief but silent nod and stands as he does. Tony thanks her for her hospitality as he turns to the sink and tips the dregs of coffee out, giving the mug a rinse before leaving it on the draining board, and May thanks in him reply about Peter as he makes his way back out to the hall with her following him out.

“Please let me know if Peter says anything more to you about the stalker,” Tony implores halfway across the threshold, turning back to her as he crosses. “I want to protect him as best I can, but I don't want this to go down the way it did last time with Toomes. I can't help if I'm left out of the loop.”

She hums back quietly in acknowledgement.

“I'll keep you informed, don't worry,” she replies, hanging onto the door. “And if anything happens before the wedding on Saturday, I'll call you.”

“Thanks,” he nods gratefully, managing a short, “good night” before he turns in the direction of the stairs and she closes the door with a soft click.

By the time he's in the car again, Tony's already noticed how much lighter he feels. It feels good to have someone on his side, somebody else looking out for Peter. It never really felt that way with the kid's aunt before but maybe that was because they were very clearly on opposite teams. It doesn't feel like that now.

A small smile grows in the corners of his mouth as he turns the ignition and gives the car a few quiet revs before disengaging the handbrake and putting his foot down, indicating back onto the road.

Despite Peter's stalker, he feels good.

Not great, but. Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY HAD "THE TALK". I'm super happy to have finally gotten this out the way, I've had this particular part planned for a while but it kept changing locations in my mind.
> 
> On another note, can I just say that you guys brought literal tears to my eyes with your last lot of comments. I just wanted to hug each and every one of you, thank you so much! It means so much to have people reading a story I've really invested myself into. I've done stints of writing here and there, but I haven't really written anything longer since I left Fanfiction.net, so your comments mean everything to me! Thank you again!


	8. Raising A Spider (Part 8)

CHAPTER EIGHT

~

They arrive at the wedding venue _way_ too early. May had warned him they'd be the first there, but had they stayed home any longer he quite literally would've started climbing walls, so she'd acquiesced to his whining. Climbing into the car, dressed to the nines, double-checking they had everything – invitation, gift, spare lipstick, spare hair-gel, pocket-square – eventually everything was accounted for and Peter realised his aunt was stalling. So, with a reluctant sigh, May had entered the address of the reception into her phone and pulled out of their driveway, musing to him that it was unusual to hold the ceremony and the reception in the same place. Peter had countered that with the fact he'd never known Mr. Stark to make life harder for himself when he didn't have too. It made sense not to drive from one place to the other and neither Tony nor Pepper were particularly religious as far as he'd seen, so there was no reason to have it in a church or anything, and then have to move the whole brigade for the after-party. She admitted he had a point.

Pulling up a long and winding drive, they reach a secluded car-park surrounded by a well manicured hedge on three sides with the bay visible on the fourth and May parks them in a spare space beside a boat-shed, the structure providing shade over the vehicle. It's a bright, but cool day. Cold enough to not notice a sunburn, but sunny enough to develop one, made even easier by the obvious breeze coming off the water as it chops lightly at the waves in front of them. Peter spots several mooring piers to his left, most of which appear to house expensive yachts, though some of the larger ones appear to hold personal luxury liners and the thought crosses his mind that Tony might actually have a boat or two here. The piers are immaculate too, which means somebody is out there everyday scrubbing bird poop off them.

Adjusting her dress before they step out and thenpursing her lips disapprovingly at the weather as soon as they're out of the car, May makes an expression not dissimilar to the one she'd given him last Saturday morning, which had been accompanied by a lengthy lecture and a sharp tongue that had left no room for argument. The memory of that morning still stings, even if Peter is undeniably grateful to his mentor for being the one to break the news to her, sparing him her initial round of panic.

Peter shakes those thoughts from his mind. Best not to dwell too long on that conversation.

“I hope it's not outside,” she says, referring to the wedding. A quirked eyebrow over the roof of the car lets Peter know she's not convinced it won't be. “Bit windy, don't you think?”

Peter agrees with a nod, but says nothing as he casts his gaze out over the water. There are a few sailing boats out there and he spots a ferry in the distance, but the sight of it makes his stomach tighten so, quickly, he diverts his gaze.

Pulling the invitation out of her purse to help them correctly identify the building they're trying to locate, May leads the way and, as Peter predicts, it's the largest, most glamorous sailing club on the shoreline. Yet it's somehow smaller than he'd imagined – the lack of gaud in location is clearly Pepper's doing – there's even a security guy out front, but it takes Peter a few seconds more to fully process that he recognises the guard.

“Happy?” he inquires quizzically, approaching the intimidating stature of a man.

“Kid!” the man exclaims brightly, yanking off a pair of shades to reveal eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, coming to rest on Peter as they pull up. “How've you been?”

His mouth pulls up at the corners. At least he knows somebody here.

“I've been good,” he nods, smile growing as they briefly shake hands. “What's happening with you?”

“Not much, not much,” Happy releases his grip and waves a hand in the air, as though physically dismissing the comment. “Been rather quiet lately. Tony's been pretty stressed out, but at least he's not been causing me any grief. I haven't seen you in a couple months either, how's that, erm, internship going?”

May holds up a hand.

“Please,” she sighs. “Spare me the whole internship saga.”

“Oh,” Happy's mouth pops open briefly before he regains his composure. He jabs a thumb her way, but directs his next question to Peter. “She found out, huh?”

Peter feels a sheepish look creeping into his expression. “Uh, yeah.”

“That's bad luck,” he winces empathetically, but winks in May's direction. “But I guess it's probably better, now that the cat's out of the bag. Tony kept his _'secret identity'_ ,” Happy actually makes air-quotes with his fingers, “secret for all of about two seconds, so you were definitely in the lead there for a while.”

“Yes, well,” May sniffs and replies pointedly. “Secrets aren't always a good thing. Are they, Peter?”

It's clear she's referring to his 'stalker', but wisely, he keeps his shut and follows her inside the building, giving Happy an apologetic wave as he follows after. The man gives him a thumbs up and for some reason it feels like gestural wish of good luck.

Upon walking in, the enormous chandelier hanging in the center of the room most noticeably steals his attention first, thousands of crystals seemingly reflecting the light in every direction and illuminating the entire room. Then, his eyes float down to take in the helium balloons that dot the room randomly, and the one million lilies arranged in various vases. Pepper once told him how they were her favourite flower and he smiles at the sight of them, ruminating on the idea that maybe Tony did put some effort in before dropping his gaze to his shoes and briefly catching the sight of his reflection in the marble flooring. Mostly, everything looks sparkly and expensive, and Peter sees May shift consciously beside him, flattening her wind-touched hair.

“I feel under-dressed,” she says quietly, almost awestruck.

Peter adjusts his tie and echoes the sentiment right back, feeling shabby in the only suit he owns, the one he bought for homecoming with his semi-ironed white shirt and cross-hatch blue tie completing the look.

Whilst the two of them stand their, gaping at the ornamentation, a smiling woman approaches them and directs them up a flight of stairs, leading them out into a room-almost-atrium filled with neatly arranged circular tables and an arch at the very front. There are several tables full of drinks and silver platters with h'ors doeuvres, but Peter takes a moment to investigate the view from behind the wedding arch.

“You can practically see the whole bay from here!” he exclaims exuberantly back to May, who is wandering through the circular tables to find their place-cards and seats, her heels clacking on the polished wooden flooring.

The smiling woman approaches Peter with a glass of champagne, but Peter ruefully informs her he is under age and she apologises, leaving and returning with what appears to be a mineral water.

“Have you found our table yet, May?” he inquires across the room, taking the drink from the woman with a small note of thanks.

“No, not yet,” comes her reply, flipping a place-setting in order to read the name as Peter sips tentatively from his chilled glass. Sparkling water is only for rich people, he thinks, tasting it and finding it to be repulsive. Must be an acquired taste. He tips it out onto a plant once the woman has disappeared out of view, though he feels bad for wasting it.

Setting the empty glass down near the back of the room, Peter soon sees more guests arriving; a woman dressed in a floor-length, champagne-coloured dress with an open back secured at her neck, her hair affixed to her scalp with an amount of hair-spray Peter would deem obscene, and a man in an emerald suit, grey hair with flecks of black in it accompanying her.

May shoots him a look that says, _who are these people?_ Peter just sends her one back that he hopes she interprets as, _I have no idea._ He didn't even know Mr. Stark affiliated with anyone outside of the Avengers and him, though he's suddenly beginning to realise what a naive assumption he's made.

The two new arrivals seem to waltz to the center of the room, easily finding their table and taking their seats. Peter hopes he's not on that table, he's pretty sure they'd snub him if he even attempted to smile in their direction.

However, his attention isn't occupied with them for long, as a man dressed in a decorated, navy-blue uniform walks stiffly into the room soon after. Unlike the other two, Peter knows exactly who this is.

“Mr.―Mr. Rhodes?” he stammers out an attempt at a greeting, the name catching the man's attention as Peter slides up to him hesitantly.

The man frowns and looks up at him, making Peter feel smaller than a pea under his gaze.

“Do I know you?” are the first words out of Colonel Rhodes mouth. Peter winces, not exactly excited to bring up his secret identity nor the time the man lost his ability to walk.

“Um, I guess not,” he chuckles humourlessly, the nervousness too obvious in his voice. He holds out a hand, relieved when the man grasps it firmly and gives it a single, solid shake. “I'm Peter―. Parker. Peter Parker.”

“Oh,” says the man in front of him, a grin blossoming to replace the frown. “ _You're_ Peter! Nice to meet you, son. Tony speaks highly of you.”

Some tension leaks out of Peter's body as he releases the Colonel's hand, partly relieved the man hadn't dismissed him like some annoying child bothering him at a county air-show.

“Nice to meet you to,” Peter smiles, quickly tacking, “sir” to the end. “I was― I mean, _am_ a big fan of the Iron Patriot. Uh, when I was little.”

An overwhelming urge to bang his damn-fool head against the nearest wall is quickly suppressed, but the self-chastening words still berate him harshly. _Way to go Peter, remind the man he's no longer the Iron Patriot. He'll love that! Why don't you point out the part where he fell from the sky and lost the use of his legs too! Just brilliant._

However, the genuine, hearty laugh the man produces interrupts his internal chastisement.

“Aww gee, thanks kid,” the man manages without a trace of anger. “But there's no need to tip-toe around the obvious. I'm clearly not flying her anymore, even with the leg brace Tony made me.”

“I'm so sorry!” Peter quickly blurts out, already flushed down to his neck with horrifying embarrassment. “I shouldn't have said―”

Colonel Rhodes just brushes away his apology with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Don't be sorry,” he shakes his head. “None of it was your fault.”

It's not untrue, but the words still make him wince – his heart still feels guilty for not preventing Mr. Rhodes' accident, even if the man himself is unaware of his secret identity and the fact that he was present in Germany when it happened.

“Besides,” the man continues, oblivious to his internal blame. “Not like I can't walk when I want to, it's just difficult to do some of the things I could do before. Between you and me, the wheel-chair is easier some days, but don't tell you-know-who.”

Peter eyes the exoskeletal brace affixed to Colonel Rhodes' legs sadly as the man taps a hand against it, seemingly unbothered.

“And anyway,” the man continues with a smirk, “I've tried to get Tony to call it the Iron Patriot for the longest time, but I guess I can settle for his way-cooler, vastly more intelligent intern.”

Colonel Rhodes winks at him, but Peter doesn't know if that's because he's worked out Peter's secret identity yet and is using 'intern' as code, or because the man knows Tony is sneaking up behind him. The latter, he suspects heavily.

“What's this about a ' _way-cooler'_ intern?”

Both he and Colonel Rhodes look up to see an unrecognisable version of whom Peter _thinks_ is his mentor, striding over to greet them. Apparently the Colonel thinks so too, because the first words out his mouth are directly reflective of Peter's thoughts.

“Holy,” the man stammers, looking mildly shocked. “Who are you and what have you done with Anthony Stark?”

Honestly, Mr. Stark is practically radiating sunshine and rainbows and he looks immaculate and more put-together than Peter's ever seen. A simple black suit, white shirt, white flower in his breast pocket, polished shoes and a trimmed goatee. This simple look suits Mr. Stark better than any of the flashy outfits the man tries to pull off, but Peter keeps that thought to himself as he beams at him.

Tony chuckles as he claps his friend on the shoulder.

“Hey! I scrub up pretty nice sometimes!” he replies with mock offence.

“Not that I'd know.” Rhodes jibes back with an eye-roll and a smirk.

Tony just smirks back, earning himself a second eye-roll from his best-friend.

“How old are you again?” Colonel Rhodes asks rhetorically before turning his attention back to Peter. “Seriously,” he says, jabbing a thumb at Tony, “You should've seen this guy in college. Absolute nightmare! Went weeks without showering! The only times his laundry ended up washed was when _I_ did it for him.”

“Hey,” Tony protests, mirth in his eyes. “Don't embarrass me in front of the kid! Besides, I could tell some stories about you too, man. _”_

“Embarrass you? No,” Rhodes replies, his smirk growing larger. “You do that easily enough yourself.”

The two men break out into laughter and Peter feels somewhat out of the loop, as one tends to when flanked by best-friends. It suddenly seems as if the two men have forgotten he's even standing there and Tony's eyes lose some of their shine as he dials down the volume.

“Your brace playing up again, Rhodey?” he asks, suddenly all seriousness, gesturing to the man's legs. “I saw you walk in and you looked a little stiff.”

Peter spots a tiny frown there as the Colonel replies.

“Just a bit,” he shrugs honestly, his voice also subdued. “Nothing too serious, though.”

Tony's frown deepens as his voice drops and Peter wouldn't have been able to hear him if not for his enhanced hearing.

“Why didn't you call me?” he asks. “Any time, Rhodes. Whenever, I'll come and fix it up for you.”

He sounds hurt.

“Come on now Tones,” the other man scoffs. “I'm not gonna call you every time the damn thing plays up. Besides, you've got enough on your plate right now― you're getting married for god's sake, and here we are talking about me and my damn legs again!”

Peter shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, glancing around to notice how quickly the room is now filling with people. There are a couple of familiar faces, but Peter couldn't place them even if he tried.

“James we're not having this argument again,” Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Especially not in front of the kid.”

Oh good, they do remember him.

“No,” Rhodes growls pointedly. “You're right. We're not, _b_ _ecause_ Stark you're not always right about everything, you know.”

Tony does the adult thing and drops it, sighing as he cuts his losses before returning to Peter and plastering on a smile. The expression is so forced that Peter feels something akin to whiplash as Tony's entire demeanour changes.

“Come on kid,” he says, gripping him by the shoulder and steering him away from the Colonel. “Let me show you the view from the front, you'll love it. You can see the whole bay from here.”

The words almost echo his own. Peter's already seen the view, but he doesn't say anything and lets Tony leads him away with an ironclad hand, only managing a half-turn and an apologetic little wave back at Colonel Rhodes who wears a hard expression on his features.

At least they manage to reach the front before Peter's curiosity overtakes him.

“I don't understand, Mr. Stark,” he admits as they pass the arch. “What were you even arguing about with Mr. Rhodes?”

Tony smiles at him as they stop by the window, it's a genuine one this time though, despite how sad it is. “Don't worry about it, buddy. Rhodey just…” he stalls, filtering his next words carefully. “… just doesn't know how to ask for help. Or, I dunno, maybe he just doesn't want it from me. God knows all I've done for the man is make him miserable.”

As shocked as he is by the admission, Peter keeps his head cool, because clearly what they both took away from that conversation was vastly different.

“I don't know, he seemed… _sad._ Not for himself, but for you?”

His mentor turns a critical eye on him, so Peter hurries to explain, staring at his feet so that he doesn't have to look at the changing expressions on Tony's face, ranging from distressed and tense to straight up angry.

“Maybe he's just upset that you keep taking the blame?” the statement comes out more like a question and he hopes he isn't crossing a line. “From my perspective it seems like you two must argue about his legs a lot.”

Peter glances up as Mr. Stark sighs, an expression of defeat settling into the lines on his face.

He smiles sadly. “I dragged him into that stupid fight with Cap. Hell, I dragged _you_ into that stupid fight too. I _am_ to blame, kid.”

“No, you're not,” Peter protests, a shudder of disaffection running down his spine. “I was there! I saw it.”

“Neither of you should have even been there,” he spits through a clenched jaw. “That was my doing.”

“You were just trying to do what you thought was right,” Peter argues back, not liking the defeated look Mr. Stark now wears. “There was nothing more you could have done to protect either of us.”

Apparently that strikes a nerve. “Oh, so now you're on _his_ side?” Mr. Stark says, rounding on Peter with resentment in his tone and, if he's not mistaken, distress.

The words are like a punch to the gut, they physically _hurt_. Tony has never spoken to him like that before, as though challenging Peter to prove his loyalty.

Peter sounds very small, even to his own ears as the next words leave him, bypassing his brain and exiting his mouth as barely more than a whisper.

“I'm not on anyone's side, Mr. Stark.”

The anger leaves Tony's face immediately, a flash of overt regret and shame replacing it as if somebody struck the expression off with an open palm, but he doesn't stick around to hear the words of apology. With hurt blooming in his chest as though it were blood spreading from a knife wound, Peterinstead takes off into the crowd with the initial intention to find May.

“Kid, wait― Peter―!”

Filled with such deep remorse, the words very nearly pull him up short, but determinedly he ignores the guilty quaver in the man's tone and pushes forward through the crowd single-mindedly, not hearing anything more Mr. Stark says as the people milling about and mingling with champagne in one hand and h'ors doeuvres in the other envelop him on every side.

It's selfish of him to leave Mr. Stark like that, he knows. It's the man's wedding for Christ's sake, Peter should be doing everything he can to make him happy and yet he's somehow managed to pick a fight that wasn't even his to begin with.

Halfway through the room he abandons his plans to find May, knowing full well she'll take one glance at him and know something is awry, not to mention that the sheer knowledge Tony will be looking for him to apologise makes the room feel all the more stifling and he's not even sure he'd accept an apology right now.

So he chooses to make his way down the stairs, into the lobby and finally outside, where he can drink in the refreshingly brisk air blowing off the water and perhaps calm his pounding hurt.

“You're back.”

The voice makes Peter tense and spin on his heel as soon as he steps out, his spider-sense tingling for the briefest of seconds before settling back down into nothingness.

Oh, yeah.

Happy.

“Just needed some air,” he lies lamely, making a show of breathing in as the wind tickles his hair.

The man nods sagely, a sparkle of humour in his eye that Peter barely catches before it's hidden away.

“I know how that is. That many rich people in one room? You get tired pretty quick trying to keep up with their mental games,” he agrees, raising his right hand and making little circles by his temple. “I don't know how Tony does it, to be honest.”

Peter's eyebrows do a weird jumpy thing before he catches them, but Happy apparently notices, his eyes narrowing as his gaze lingers on the wrinkle in his forehead.

“No,” he tries again, examining Peter critically. “You've got that look about you that Pepper gets. You had an argument with the boss, didn'tcha.”

Peter grinds his teeth, but doesn't say anything as the man continues eyeing him suspiciously. However, not denying it is as good as an admission it seems.

“Ha!” Happy shouts with a wry smile, “I knew it.”

“Not an argument, per se…” Peter defends weakly as Happy's expression morphs into something that looks almost reminiscent of sympathy.

“A disagreement then,” the man corrects with a nod as Peter tears his gaze away, turning back to the water to watch the waves breaking against the rocks.

“I don't even know why I got involved,” he admits with a sigh. “It wasn't really my business. I just couldn't listen to him talk like that – like every problem in the world is something he personally created.”

A light seems to go on in Happy's head, because his eyes soften and he looks more kindly.

“Sometimes I think you're more mature than he is,” the man chuckles, a shrug accompanying his next sentence. “You're right, but I don't think he'll ever change in that regard. Old dog, new tricks and all that.”

“But he's a good man,” Peter vents, looking to Happy with deep confusion. “Why does he constantly think he's the villain in every situation? He's a superhero!”

“Yeah,” Happy agrees, his face twisting into dry reluctance. “But he's also used to shouldering responsibility, it can be hard to kick a habit as addictive as that.”

“I suppose…” Peter recognises reluctantly.

Happy gives him a gentle nudge when Peter's gaze lingers on the water wistfully, too deep in thought to carry a conversation any longer.

“Hey,” he prods. “Just remember, he's not _your_ responsibility either. Don't let Tony's problems get their hooks in you, he's got more than a squirrel's got acorns.”

Peter doesn't say anything in reply, but he shoots the man a slow dissatisfied glance before returning his sights to the waterline.

“Get back to the party, kid,” Happy says, jerking a thumb behind him. “If you linger too long out here, you know the guy will come looking for you.”

He's probably right, Peter admits to himself, shaking off the stagnancy he's developed in Happy's presence.

“Have a good time and don't let the boss's problems become your own,” the man continues, right as a car with ribbons tied all over it pulls up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how's my pacing? op accepts constructive criticism.


	9. Raising A Spider (Part 9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's unedited, so please excuse my mistakes. Thank you :)

CHAPTER NINE

~

Tony watches Peter disappear through the open double doors at the back of the hall with wide, repentant eyes, the kid’s name already half out his mouth for a second time when a hand closes around his upper arm and jerks him to a halt. The motion is enough to choke the boy’s name out of his airways and it shocks him long enough to stall him in his chase, inspiring visceral anger at the hand holding him for doing so.

Tracking the grip all the way up, he meets the wary eyes of its owner. Rhodey.

The anger bubbles, but before Tony can even muster any verbal heat the will give away his open emotions, Rhodey cuts him off.

“Don't, Tony,” he says lowly, keeping his voice subdued and his eyes firm. “Let the kid go.”

Hesitating only for a moment, he weighs the words and then the motivation behind them, before yanking his arm away both brusquely and with a regrettable understanding of Rhodey’s rationale. As much as he hates to admit it, the expression the man gives him — a raised eyebrow and a hard, warning glare — pauses his irritation long enough to evaluate the situation and his surroundings. _Think about where you are, man,_ Rhodey’s face conveys. _Now’s not the time._ And Tony reluctantly finds himself in agreement. It would not do to alert the people here of Peter’s importance in his life, it wasn’t so long ago that he put Pepper in the same danger – The Mandarin, Justin Hammer – and he isn’t about to make the same mistake again, especially not with a kid. _Not with his kid._ The memory of Peter confiding in him about the stalker rises to the surface and sends a shudder down his spine.

“Walk with me,” the other man prompts, probably because they’ve stalled too long in one place and the guy is always protecting his image in one way or another, even if Tony himself doesn’t give two shits about it most of the time. He’s a billionaire, what does he need to keep up an image for? Or at least that’s what he would’ve said if asked about it six or seven years ago. He knows better now. His image doesn’t just protect himself, it placates the media, lets them pretend he’s one-dimensional. Somebody that doesn’t care for anything other than eccentric antics and heroics, somebody larger than life.

So Tony falls into step alongside his oldest friend as the man snatches two glasses of champagne from a waiter and hands one over. He takes a sip and recognises the cloyingly sweet drink on the tip of his tongue. He’s never really liked champagne, but he keeps drinking because he clearly doesn’t deserve nice things and Rhodey’s always the one reprimanding him for his stupidity. Somehow, he feels like that’s what this is.

“You were watching us.” Tony says around the rim of his glass. It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact, and Rhodey’s never been one to shy away from the truth, even if the truth sometimes needs to be handled with kid gloves.

“Yes,” he admits without hesitation, leading them to a quiet corner of the room where a waiter has abandoned a tray of some leaf wrapped rice thing on a table. They sit and Tony takes one because he needs something to do with his other hand.

“I… yes,” Rhodey continues, treading with care as his brow furrows. “Did you expect me not too?”

Tony takes another hors d’oeuvre without reply and the silence drags. Then,

“How old is that kid, Tony?”

Oh. Okay. Not what he was expecting.

“Uh, fifteen, why?”

Rhodey sighs and briefly closes his eyes.

“He’s not, you know, _yours,_ is he?”

Tony nearly chokes on the food as he swallows.

“What! God, no! No he’s not mine, Rhodes! Sweet Jesus— I’d tell you if I found out I had any illegitimate children running around—”

An expression of relief crosses the other man’s face as he holds up his hands in surrender, but the expression only lasts a moment.

“I was just checking,” he says seriously. “You and he seemed… I dunno, I’ve just never seen you act like that with anybody, let alone children.”

“Fifteen is hardly a child,” Tony snorts.

Rhodey’s expression hardens again, but Tony doesn’t really know what it is he’s said to put it there.

“But he _is_ still a child,” the man grimaces. “And that’s why I want to know why you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?” He asks around a mouthful of food, stuffing in a second… dolmada? Is that what these are?

A flash of hurt chased by rage crosses the man’s face, but Tony only glimpses it for a second before Rhodey schools himself and sighs, dragging a hand over his eyes.

“I can’t believe–” he begins only to halt. “ _Seriously?”_

Rhodey’s shocked expression only confuses him, but the man continues, the time on a different, graver tangent.

“I lost the use of my legs,” he states quietly, Tony sucking in a breath of air through his teeth at the unexpected twist this conversation has taken. He is not prepared for wherever this is going. “I can’t _walk_ anymore, not without the help of your brace.”

“What does this have to do with—”

“But I knew the risks,” Rhodey continues, as though no interruption has occurred. “You asked me to fly to Germany with you because you believed in what you were doing and, quite frankly, for the first time in a long while, I believed you were doing the right thing too.”

Something icy runs up Tony’s spine, but it’s not pleasant and it leaves him feeling frozen and unnaturally still.

“And then, suddenly, we were on the tarmac and I thought: ‘ _gee this looks a lot like war’_ and by the time you and Steve were punching each other’s faces in, I knew that’s exactly what it was. A war. And where you’d gathered your little crew from, well, I didn’t think too hard about it because I trusted that you were doing the right thing. I trusted _you._ ”

Rhodey runs a hand through his hair in frustration, looking decidedly more angry than when he’d begun.

“For over a year I thought maybe you’d, I dunno, become more responsible. I thought maybe, for a second, that the accords had taught you a lesson. And then _today_ I’m standing there, talking to a kid, no more than fifteen, and I think, _‘hang on, I know this voice’_.”

It’s an effort to swallow past the lump in his throat, but Tony does manage it even if it’s with a great degree of difficulty, the question on his tongue coming out through unmoving lips.

“He told you?”

Another reluctant, bone-weary sigh leaves Rhodey before he answers.

“No,” he says, looking uncomfortable and tired. “But he didn’t have too. He was there that day, wasn’t he?”

Tony doesn’t have the energy to lie. Maybe he shouldn’t say, but then again he’s never been great at keeping secrets from those he trusts. That’s probably what got him in this whole mess in the first place— first to share, last to receive. Or at least in regards to the truth.

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Tony,” the man mutters. “He’s a kid. A _kid._ ”

“You think I don’t know that!?” he snaps back, still making sure to keep his volume just between the two of them, as he grips the stem of his champagne glass like a lifeline. “You think I don’t regret it? I do, Rhodes. I do. I… I messed up. I _was_ messed up. I didn’t think about Peter. At the time the only thing I could think or feel was how hurt _I_ was. How betrayed _I_ felt. It was stupid, ridiculously so, and now that kid looks at me like I’ve hung the moon and all I can see when I look at him is how much I’ve let him down!”

The man is right to chastise him, he more than deserves it for what he’s done under the guise of lawfulness and good. Perhaps giving Peter the suit may not have been a bad thing, after all, the kid had already been out fighting criminals, but the intentions under which Tony had done so _were._ He hadn’t given Peter the Spiderman suit to protect him, no, he’d handed over the suit so that Peter could help him stop Steve, and that had gone to shit anyway!

It feels fitting that he should be cleansed in Rhodey’s fire of righteousness because Peter refuses to do it.

Tony isn’t good.

He isn’t pure, like Peter.

He doesn’t defend righteousness, like Rhodey.

He doesn’t seek justice, like Steve.

He just drifts along in other people’s currents, providing means and enabling others. Supporting from the side. Because when he takes the spotlight, all that people see is raw, ugly and unquenchable anger and bitterness. A child who never grew into somebody better.

There’s a darkness in him. A spot that simply won’t disappear and nobody else seems to see it. God, sometimes he wishes they would. He’s a fraud. A villain masquerading as someone good, a hero. It would so much easier if everyone else saw that too.

“I’m trying, Rhodes,” he sighs. “I really am trying to make up for what I did, believe me.”

The ghost of a smile appears on the other man’s lips.

“I do,” he nods. “I’m just… worried.”

“You have every right to be,” Tony says, shutting his eyes briefly. “And the situation is… more complicated than it has a right to be.”

Rhodey’s eyebrows raise in a way that isn’t very comforting.

“Let’s just say that Peter is a magnet for trouble,” he elaborates with a humourless chuckle.

Rhodey holds up a hand and Tony stops.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know,” he says, shaking his head. “Just promise me that if this gets out of hand, you’ll call?”

Tony’s not sure the situation isn’t already out of hand, but he promises anyway, even if he doesn’t intend to drag his friend into another situation that could put him in more danger. He owes Rhodes better than that.

The smile on Rhodey’s face returns in full after the promise has been made and the man settles back into his chair.

“At least I can take comfort in knowing you care for him,” Rhodey says, retrieving his champagne from the table to take a sip. “And judging by the way the kid looks at you, I’d say he’s pretty fond of you too.”

“Like I hung the moon?” Tony asks rhetorically, repeating his words from earlier.

“That’s not an inaccurate way of describing it,” he shrugs. “Yeah.”

He sighs.

“I know, though I wish he didn’t. I don’t… I don’t deserve it.”

“Well, I think you’ve got a fan for life, so you’d better man up and take responsibility for it,” Rhodey flicks him a toothy grin, an attempt at lightening the mood whilst still imploring him to take the statement seriously.

“More than fan,” he says in reply, knowing there’s more behind it than Rhodey could ever guess at. “I’ve got a godson.”

Rhodey decides to inhale the rest of his drink but it backfires and he ends up in a coughing fit, eyes wider than saucers as he attempts to clear his airway.

 _“Excuse me!”_ he hacks when his ability to breathe has returned.

“No one knows yet,” he whispers urgently. “Not even the kid, so you can’t say anything.”

“Does Pepper…?”

Tony nods.

“Pepper, Peter’s aunt— May, and myself. That’s it. Uh, and now you, I guess.”

“ _Why?”_ Rhodey asks, and then continues before Tony can gather himself enough to feel too offended. “I mean, as Ironman, aren’t you in more danger than most? Why would you agree to... ?”

“Honestly,” Tony admits, “I’m not entirely sure why, but regardless of what May’s reasons really were, I’m happy to accept the responsibility.”

And whilst Rhodey looks as though he'd very much like to say something about that, he doesn't get the chance because Happy is suddenly upon them, somewhat out of breath and red in the face as he grips Tony by the shoulder and gasps out the words, “She’s here!”


	10. Raising A Spider (Part 10)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... hello?... is anyone still here...?

CHAPTER TEN  
  
~

Sunlight dances off the cream paint of the car that pulls into the gravel car-park, the tires crunching under the grit, and the ribbons affixed to the front fluttering in the wind. For a very brief moment it inspires tranquility in Peter ― a second of relief amongst the fist of anxiety that squeezes his stomach harder and harder each passing day, as though he is trapped in another's body and they're attempting to kick him out from the inside. The minute of levity gratefully comes as a reminder that, despite how things are with Tony this very second, with May this week, and with his life in general, there do and will come moments of lightness and happiness that don't come with baggage or strings attached.

However, the feelings the car inspires don't last more than a few moments before they die away, slipping through him like waking from a pleasant dream into reality, yet being unable to remember exactly what the dream was about. And every notion even remotely resembling serenity dissolves into dust the moment Happy emits a jarring noise of panic – comical, maybe, if Peter had been given time to process it before the man disappeared.

Happy, in his flight of panic, only stalls himself long enough to bark out a jumbled set of directives before rushing toward the door at a pace Peter would not consider safe for the body-guard, and vanishes into the building, leaving him alone on the slate steps. It seems the man has forgotten Peter isn't _really_ a Stark Industries employee, but Peter doesn't mind helping. Happy has been personally on-board and in-touch with him since the Vulture incident so he does owe him for that, and besides, he can't help but like the gruff personality and brutal quips he returns every now and again.

The wind skitters across Peter's cheek as he turns back, expelling a lungful of air as he descends the steps, his shoes landing with a crunch upon the gravel, and the car door opens with a click, but it doesn't swing open _all_ the way. Instead it hangs in limbo, half-way between possibilities.

For a moment he waits, hesitates; a single white shoe dipping into view below the frame. But when the door lingers in limbo for a little too long, Peter takes it upon himself to grip the handle and pull it wide open revealing the one occupant inside: 

Pepper.

At the sight of her, Peter suddenly feels as though the wind must have stolen his breath.

There’s white lace everywhere, somewhat blinding to the eye as she steps out of the vehicle and into the sun, but it makes her look ethereal, like an angel.

The dress, with intricate flowers, wraps around her frame fittingly, a matching veil protruding from her styled chignon as Dutch braids lace up the back of the hairstyle in a way not dissimilar to the ribbons on the back of the dress. The effect is mesmerising, and Pepper has to ask him twice for his help in standing because he doesn’t hear her the first time, too stunned with awe.

“These heels are a pain,” she chuckles nervously as he helps her out. “I hope I don’t trip going down the aisle.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” he reassures her, despite his own misgivings about the anxious shade of green she’s turning. “But if you’re really that nervous about it, I’ll make sure to catch you when you swoon.”

That pulls a laugh, but she pokes him in the ribs for his cheekiness.

“Maybe I’ll have you be my flower girl instead,” she teases, holding her bouquet of daisies, hydrangeas, daffodils and hyacinths beside his ear. “You’d look great with a flower crown.”

 _That_ pulls an unmanly blush from his cheeks, leaving him flustered and only serving to make her peals of laughter rise higher.

As levitating as the minute is, the moment does inevitably pass. The melody of her chortle skips away as the climax of the her day bares down forcefully upon her. Peter watches as the smiles slips away, leaving her face unmarred by lines and covered with make-up that clings tightly to enhance her features.

"You look amazing, Pepper," he says sincerely with a squeeze of her hand, watching a smile climb across her face and up to her eyes. "Really."

"Thank you, Peter," Pepper says kindly before she brushes a wisp of stray hair behind her ear, straightening her spine as she does and drawing to her full height.

“Well, this is it,” she says, her chin held high as she visibly stuffs down her nerves – a practiced movement, too quick and calm to be anything but. However, Peter can't help but feel in awe of it. Beside her, he feels short and incomparable. It isn't just her high-heels that make the difference more striking, it's the perfected mask of confidence that she wears as a shield to the outside world. Peter's nothing like her, nothing like her _or_ Tony, despite the fact that he very much wants to be. He looks up to them. Both of them. They're his heroes and, quite honestly, he's not sure why they stick around for him sometimes. They don't want to be baby-sitting a fifteen-year-old.

The wayward thought strikes him hard, like a back-handed blow. The emotion twists and coils inside him, even as he wrestles with it as though it is a serpent, loose inside his head. Where had that even come from?

“Peter?” Pepper asks, jerking him out of the puddle of self-pitying he'd accidentally stepped in. “Are you alright?”

The readability of his face makes him curse it.

“Yes,” he nods, plastering on a tight smile. “Of course.”

It's a poor lie, but she allows him his privacy – only a small frown conveying her worrying.

“Sometimes I think there's a little too much of Tony in you,” she says, leading the way up the steps of the sailing club, her hand still tightly clinging to his arm. “Self-sacrifice isn't always a noble trait, Peter…” she trails off, her frown somehow deepening though her brow never crinkles.

Pepper doesn't look at him whilst she speaks, allowing him a moment to absorb her words – firm and clear as they are. For half a second her grip tightens on his arm, and she clutches onto him as though he might disappear if she doesn't.

He doesn't feel as though he deserves her concern, but he takes it like drinking a poisoned chalice, the guilt burning on the way down.

“We had an argument,” he admits slowly, softly. “Tony and I… we had an argument.” Oh god he regrets it. He doesn't want to push them away - he doesn't want them to abandon him.

Pepper doesn't say anything as they step inside the building, but she doesn't have to. The unspoken question is there, hovering in the silence.

Peter takes a fortifying breath before continuing, releasing tension from his muscles as the recent conversation rises to the forefront of his mind.

“About his readiness and willingness to take the blame for everything,” he says. “He always does it. Takes it upon himself like he's… like he's a _martyr_ or something…” Peter shakes his head and bites his lower lip angrily as they begin to ascend the stairs.

“That's just Tony,” she says softly, a smile tugging at the very edges of her mouth. “… it's hard to understand, but with the life he's lead… sometimes the past gets in the way of the present.”

Peter hears the sadness in her voice, it lingers in the timbre.

“I'm sorry,” he apologises, feeling ashamed that he's brought this up at all now. “I shouldn't have―”

“There's no need for an apology, Peter,” she interrupts gently, pausing halfway up the stairs. “Never, not to me.”

The kindness in her face nearly buckles his knees underneath him, but his heart feels oddly weighted for all the joy it contains.

“Um, thanks, Pepper.”

She gives his arm another squeeze as they continue on in silence, eventually reaching the landing at the top.

Pepper seems to come back to herself as she stops in front of the closed doors, behind which, Peter knows there is Tony – likely already waiting for her under the arch by the bay-facing window.

“Are you ready?” he asks as she retracts her hand from atop his coat-sleeve.

The soft laugh that escapes her borders on panicked, but her reply is measured.

“I think so,” she replies, sounding sure of herself, even as Peter notes the way she is clutching her bouquet like a lifeline. Her eyes flick over to him and wrinkles with the smile she gives. “I think I've been ready a long time."

* * *

It's close to midnight by the time he and May have said their goodbyes, and though Peter is used to such a late hour on patrol, it never drains him quite like this. Apparently the fatigue is pretty apparent, because over the quiet tune on the radio, some 80s power ballad that Peter only vaguely recognizes, May murmurs a few worried words.

“You're awfully quiet…” she says softly, stopping the tapping of her index finger against the steering wheel to the beat of the song. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” he replies, stretching out in his car seat to relieve the soreness in his muscles.

It's not a lie, exactly. The yawn he stifles behind his hand isn't fake in the slightest – but the argument with Tony, and subsequent conversation with Pepper, still lingers on his mind. He knows he shouldn't let it trouble him, and yet he cannot help that it does. “I just wanna go to sleep.”

She hums in reply, shifting her gaze back to the road. “It's been a big day,” she acknowledges, tucking a stray hair behind the shell of her ear. “A good day, but a long one.”

“Yeah…” he agrees, rubbing his eyes as they slide out toward the harbors horizon, still thinking upon his dramatic exit after Tony's accusation.

May can tell there's more to his answer, but he doesn't elaborate and she doesn't push ― for which he is thankful. Her sensitivity and tact always makes him feel grateful that she is his aunt, or perhaps it's something she's cultivated over time because she seems to know when he needs his space.

“Peter,” she begins anew, changing tac as her timbre shifts into something more alerting. “Honey, we need to talk.”

The sudden change of tone in her voice and the words that leave her mouth jerk him awake. It's uncomfortable how quickly he twists in his chair, eyes bolting to the other side of the car where May is averting her own gaze by studiously fixating on the road. A weird sense of déjà vu comes over him for a brief moment, and his thoughts flash back to his trip home with Tony just over a week ago, but the feeling disappears as he sees May's grip tighten anxiously on the steering wheel.

He waits for her to take a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever conversation they're about to have, and then with a practiced, cool voice and a single blink, she turns momentarily back to him.

“I think we need to go to the police,” she almost exhales, the lines beneath her eyes quite firm and tense. “Regarding your stalker.”

It takes him a minute to catch up, and a second longer to understand, but when he does, it suddenly feels as though his heart may stop.

But she continues before he can get a word in.

“I've been thinking about it over the last week and I think it would be best if we let the authorities handle this. I think, for the time being, we need to bench Spiderman."

A haze of white sears through his synapses― “May, _no!_ ”

A sharpness, like raw metal grating against itself, accompanies her next sentence, but the worry in it belies any anger.

“Damn it, Peter,” she almost shouts, looking more pained than Peter's ever seen her. “Is Spiderman really worth your life?”

The look in her eyes almost pulls him short, it's almost enough to make him question himself… _but_ …

“I can't give up Spiderman, May, I just can't,” he argues back quietly, each syllable measured and weighted with emotion. “It's who I am.”

And it's true. Giving up Spiderman now would be like giving up a part of himself. It would be to give up on Queens, on New York, the world, but most depressingly, it would be to give up on those whom he could save. He didn't ask for super-strength, or any of his powers, but he has them now and not to use them would be a crime of morality. And, a little voice in the back of his head brutally contends, giving up Spiderman now would be to give on the relationship he's developed with Mr. Stark. After all, what would they have in common if Peter wasn't Spiderman? Mr. Stark wouldn't want him around anymore, and without Spiderman, he was nothing.

“You're not nothing, Peter,” May snaps back sternly, alerting Peter to the part where he's spoken aloud. “You're my family. My only family. What happens when Spiderman goes to far and my nephew gets hurt with him? Or worse, god forbid!”

“But I can help people, May. Really _help_ people.” He maintains, a desperate quaver detectable in his pleading tone. “Spiderman _helps_ people.”

“But who helps _Spiderman?_ Huh? Who helps _you_ when you get hurt. I might have been okay with Spiderman if you were just going around helping old ladies cross the street or helping people retrieve their keys from storm drains, but that's not Spiderman anymore. The things you've been doing have been getting more and more dangerous – and now Spiderman has caught the attention of some stalker who knows _our_ address.”

“They haven't even done anything yet,” he bursts, “We don't even know if they will!”

“Exactly!” She returns harshly. “We don't _know_ anything!”

Peter goes quiet at that and May seizes the moment.

“Look,” she huffs, glancing from the road toward him. “I'm not trying to destroy your life, Peter. I just need to know you're going to be safe. That's the one thing you gotta promise me, honey, you've got to be safe. That is the only thing I’m asking of Spiderman.”

But he can't promise her that, and she knows it.  
  
Peter knows what she means. She doesn’t want him taking on people like Toomes. But, whilst he isn’t going to go out of his way to take down any Hydra cells like the Avengers might have, he cannot guarantee he’ll stay out of something sinister when he sees it practically land in his lap.

Apparently his silence speaks volumes because May’s face almost crumples with defeat as they turn onto their street, their house coming into view beside the orange glow of the old street light.

“I'm going to call Tony tomorrow,” she decides resolutely, her tone hardening before her features regain their composure. “I'm going to tell him what we've spoken about.”

Pulling into their garage, May yanks up the handbrake before turning back to him again, but Peter almost doesn’t hear her over the blood rushing past his ears.

“He's going to keep your suit safe for a while,” May continues sadly, shaking her head. “I thought… after you broke curfew, you might consider my feelings about you - and Spiderman - and how much I worry about you - but you don’t listen to me Peter. I don’t think you even _try!_ ”

Peter’s hands are balled into fists, resting atop his black dress-pants, squeezed so tightly that it almost hurts, and his throat must have practically closed over with how hard it has suddenly become to swallow. He stares at the white of his knuckles to avoid her pleading stare.

“After that,” May carries on, her eyes still searching, willing Peter to look up. “Then I'm going to call the police about your stalker.”

He’s heard enough.

Reaching for the handle of the door, it takes all his willpower not to tear the thing off its hinges as he swings it open and steps out. He barely hears her as she yells his name out after him and he’s too angry to care anyway.

There are people out there that _need_ Spiderman - and she wants to keep Peter in over what? One stalker that he could easily handle with his hands tied behind his back!

The mere thought angers him. He feels so underestimated.

Everyone’s always looking down on him.

But he can _do_ this!

Spiderman can do this.

Striding down the hall Peter’s focus narrows to one thing ― get into the suit stuffed in his closet and go. Rules and grounding be damned. He’ll come back once he’s calmed down, he knows it. But right now he needs to clear his head.

May’s voice comes back into hearing as she steps into the kitchen, her high heels clicking against the floor, but he’s made it to his room so he slams the door behind him ― almost forcefully enough to break it, but not quite.

Before he knows it he's in his suit, greeting Karen, and out the window taking off down the street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading! Yes, it's me, walk into the club like, what up, it's been 6 months!  
> I've seen Endgame, but I promise you that wasn't the thing to make me post this chapter.  
> I actually started my Masters this year (both yay and oh no) so that is literally the thing keeping me from writing fanfiction. I can't promise I will post again soon, but it probably won't take me another six months.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Much Love,  
> Soulhearts


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